


Fade Away

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Zayn, Bucket List, Guns, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Nevada, Retired bank robber, Road Trips, Running Away, Slow Burn, bullet wounds, friends to strangers to lovers, reunited, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-20 05:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 81,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5993608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey.” Harry hears from behind Yaser’s back and the sound of it makes every knot untangle in his stomach, every rope tied around his neck go lose and float away like they were never there to begin with. “You came.”</p><p>Or, the one where Harry and Zayn find themselves on a month long vacation turned road-trip with a bucket-list, that doesn't end how Harry thought it would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diamonds and Shoes

**Author's Note:**

> I happened to binge watch the entirety of Grey's Anatomy a couple of months ago and this happened somehow? It's completely unrelated though, so don't be fooled.
> 
> Don't know, don't own. Except the words, those are mine.

Harry hasn’t needed the ring of an alarm to wake up for almost three years. It’s as if waking up bright and early in the morning had been programmed onto his eyelids and there’s nothing he could do to prevent it from happening. Fridays are the worst. His eyes blink open at seven sharp a good two seconds before Paul Simon starts singing about Diamonds and Shoes, and Harry’s not annoyed by it, not exactly, because he knows he can't stop it. But sometimes, Harry just wishes he’d still know what it feels like to sleep in – to feel that lethargic crawl towards wakefulness that sinks into your skin inch by inch. After three years, Harry’s forgotten what it’s like to rise after the sun.

Today, Harry doesn’t reach over to silence the gentle _ta-nan-na_. Instead, he lets the melody build up into its uplifting chorus. Harry doesn’t know whether it’s the harmonies or the positive lyrics that have always made him smile, but both are the reason why he picked it for his alarm. His feet twitch along the rhythm as he lies underneath the covers for a little while longer, his eyes still closed.

As the song progresses with the boisterous trumpets, Harry mentally flies over what he’ll wear today, picking his clothes out in his head before he debates on drinking coffee or tea after he’ll drag his feet down to the kitchen. A silent hum spreads through his bedroom as the song abruptly stops and the screen of his phone shuts off again. And that’s it, that’s how the first minute of every morning begins for Harry – with one of his favorite songs playing in the background of his still bleary thoughts

He sits on the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping underneath his weight, as he stares out of the windows. Harry doesn’t know when the last time he pulled the curtains closed was. The sun’s barely made an impression on the sky, lighting up the cloudless canvas from left to right, the ocean glistening under the attention of its rays, and Harry wishes the air outside was crisp, fresh and stinging as he imagines it is on winter mornings when you can smell the snow and hear the stifling clatter of the world around you. But he also knows that’s just wishful thinking. It’s hot, slightly humid and too bright. Not a single whiff of fresh air to be found.

Harry stands up and bends over, placing his palms flat against the floor as he breathes out, slow and steady, before he straightens his spine and imagines his hands are touching the sky as he breathes in, slow and steady. He repeats his movements until he can feel his heartbeat picking up, getting the memo, waking with each movement of his body. After he flies over his mental list again, Harry makes his way to the bathroom, shuts the door and locks it behind himself – a habit he doesn’t even know he has.

It takes no time at all for the steam to engulf the bathroom. The tiles all around glisten under the sharp lights above the fogged up mirror, but Harry welcomes the mist and breathes it in. He stands underneath the hot spray of water and braces his hands against the tiled wall in front of him, so he can let go and not worry about his balance as he breathes – just breathes, slow and steady.

Harry has started every one of his Fridays like this for almost twenty years now, with a boiling hot shower and his forehead pressing against the wall as he lets the water flow from the top of his head and over his back until it pools around his heels and disappears down the drain. It’s a tradition – the hot shower – from before he was old enough to understand it – any of it – and Harry isn’t one to break tradition. Or let go.

When Harry thought he was a race car driver, playing with his toy car on the dirty carpets, his parents would stand under the hot spray of the shower with the bathroom door left ajar, so Anne could keep an eye on Harry. He was five then, almost twenty years ago, when Harry’s only aspiration in life was to make the loudest engine noises his small lips allowed. It was like that on every single one of those Fridays, when they would stay in a nameless motel somewhere on to the beach or close to the middle of nowhere. His parents would just stand there, as the water poured over them, not touching, not talking – just standing there together while remaining separate – as the bathroom filled up with steam.

It was tradition to them and so it’s tradition to Harry, like a set part of the plan that Harry would never dare miss, and not because of anything else than sentimental value. Harry’s just continued what Anne and Des started years ago, what they taught him ever since he could walk, talk and go with them or stay in the motel room while they did what they had to – what they were good at. And a hot shower feels nothing if not devastatingly relaxing this early in the morning.

They passed their traditions and lessons on to Harry, instead of something useless and heavy like a grandfather clock.

Sometimes, Harry would get lost in his head, preoccupied with making engine noises and violent brake screeches to focus on the real world outside his toddler head. It’s taken some time and more effort than Harry would ever admit to a living soul, but now he can bring the images out of his head and play them in front of his eyes like an old movie, without goose bumps flushing his skin or tears smudging the blurry pictures flashing in his head.

When he’d sneaked his eyes to the bathroom door – the toy car clutched in his small hands – he saw his parents were still there, that they didn’t leave him behind or forget about him. Every time, Harry saw how his mom’s lips moved, minutely and without making any sound, like she was whispering something into the water that even his dad couldn’t hear. When Harry had asked, years later, what she was saying, Anne told him she prayed. _A good luck charm,_ she said _, because you have nothing to lose if you say a couple of words, quietly and to yourself._

So Harry does it too, lowers his head as the water cascades around his face and drips around his lips. He prays, simply wishes he’ll find a way to be okay in the end, when everything is behind him, when he lets go. Harry prays he’ll let go once, soon, as he does every Friday standing in the shower.

It’s a process – a ritual when it comes down to it. Harry wakes up at seven sharp like he does almost every morning and takes a long shower until he feels he can stand without the support of a wall. He towel dries his hair and stands in front of the sink to brush his teeth and look at his reflection in the mirror. He stands there, naked and warm, looking at how long his hair’s gotten, how round his eyes are, the sharp angles of his shoulders and the ink along his chest, before he goes to the drawers where his neatly folded clothes are. He picks a common bowling shirt. Pulling on the tight jeans and his worn out boots, Harry follows the tradition down to the very last dot.

Coffee is what Harry decides on. Des always had a cup in his hand, sipping on the lukewarm black liquid all throughout the day and Harry remembers how Anne used to joke it was better than seeing a man with a can of beer. She never liked the taste of it – he can remember the face she made every time she stole a sip from Des – the line, _I don’t know how you can drink this stuff_ , always ready on the tip of her tongue. She preferred tea, chamomile or peppermint – anything tasting of rich herbs. Des never tried to steal a sip from her.

Once his hands are tightly around his cup, Harry pads onto the balcony, breathing in and sighing, tasting salt on his tongue as he stands there, facing the rising sun. This is where the tradition comes to an abrupt stop. His parents didn’t linger around the room they were staying in, didn’t take their time to admire the way the rest of the world woke up. They checked their duffle bags, loaded the pickup and went to work – off to a new town before they repeated the process a month later.

Harry doesn’t think of how he started doubting them, questioning their decisions when he turned seventeen and his conscious started to grow heavy with the knowledge of what they were doing. He started staying behind more often than not once they moved here, into this house. It was his eighteenth birthday present, something permanent to call home where he had his own bedroom and bathroom and unlimited access to the ocean. A grand beach house in Santa Monica is what Des and Anne thought Harry wanted. They didn’t even consider the option of Harry wanting to sleep in on _every_ Friday, the fact he wanted to have a family that wouldn’t be afraid of their doorbell ringing, because you don’t expect to have company over when you don’t know anyone besides the people already in the house.

It would have been easy for Harry to follow their footsteps, carefully fitting the soles of his shoes into the indents right in front of his eyes. Easy as anything, but Harry couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch the terrified expressions on people’s faces anymore, or how their eyes bulged out and their lips wobbled because of his parents – Des, who never knew how to be a strict father and Anne, with her dimpling smile and forest eyes they shared, the person who sang Harry back to sleep when a nightmare woke him up. It was unimaginable to Harry to see the same people who brought him up also create so much terror in other people’s lives – innocent people’s lives. And he didn’t want to see himself do just that.

This house, with its too many rooms, too much space and too many memories Harry wants to cherish, but can’t find himself being able to, is something Harry never wanted. He knows why his parents thought he did and if everything would have happened differently, maybe it could have been something Harry would’ve wanted down the line. But as he turns around, so that his back is pressing against the metal railing now, Harry wants it gone. He needs for this house to not be his. He needs to never wake up here again. Harry needs to forget this house ever happened.

There’s no one moment, no standing at the doorstep or in the middle of the spaciously lifeless living room where Harry would reflect or remember the happy times. They were all bundled on that brown couch for Anne’s birthday, three pink cupcakes with a too-big candle stuck in the middle of the icing. Des perched on the balcony when Harry went to swim in the ocean, excusing it as getting some fresh air instead of admitting to wanting to keep an eye on his only son. Harry’s first night alone in the house. Harry’s first birthday spent on the couch; no cupcakes, no candles, no wishes. Harry swimming in the ocean and never once looking up at the balcony for fear of crumbling when he’d see nothing more than a shadow there. He doesn’t reminisce about any of it, because it’s not worth his knees buckling under the pressure of it all.

He washes the dirty dishes from last night, carries the two bags he packed – nothing in them except clothes – to his car and drives off. Harry doesn’t wish he had more to do or more things he owned, so that he could stay for another day. He doesn’t hope the couple who fell in love with the house takes back their offer and he certainly doesn’t want to see the house ever again. That’s why Harry doesn’t look back as he drives away. He doesn’t see how the house gets smaller and smaller until there’s nothing in his rearview mirror that’s holding him back.

* * *

 

It’s not something his parents taught him, not exactly. Chess wasn’t one of the many lessons they bestowed upon Harry – he figured this one out by himself. At first, it was a way to make strategies, to realize the importance of a plan and how every single piece of the game had its own individual purpose. Then, it was to be his own enemy, his own opponent when Harry was waiting for Anne and Des to walk into whichever motel room that was their home for the week. It ended up being something of Harry’s by the end, a part of his life he didn’t disagree with or see as a problem. It was a way to keep busy when his parents went out to work and Harry had no longer thought of toy cars as that much fun.

At least twice a week – mostly Mondays and Fridays – Harry drives to Seaside Terrace and parks his pickup in the same parking lot every time. He walks towards the ocean, but it’s not the water or the salty air that he’s here for. Harry doesn’t pay attention to the sand or listens to the morning whisper of the waves and how gently they kiss the shore, because he’s not here for a swim or a thoughtful stroll along the beach. Harry’s here to play chess with Ted.

Ted always wears this old battered grey hat when they play chess. He comes to the table with it in his hand, sits down and puts in on his head – until the game is finished and he takes it off again. Harry’s heard countless stories about that hat – where it’s been, who bought it for Ted and why he only wears it when he really needs to, because he doesn’t want to abuse its power of luck. But the plot changes from one day to the next. Once it was his wife who got it for him, but Harry’s sure Ted’s never been married, since he only mentions that women that got away fifty years ago. Last time, he got the hat abroad, while he was on the forefront of this or that war. It’s Ted’s way of keeping busy while they play – something to fill the silence that Harry sometimes leaves empty and hanging unintentionally.

Personally, Harry doesn’t like the hat, because it shadows Ted’s bright, almost yellow eyes which are a stark contrast to his dark skin. It makes Ted look older and his eyes dimmer than they actually are, but he does look the part of a grandfather he’s always been to Harry while wearing it. Not that he doesn’t without it.

Teddy – who’s pushing on eighty – has been his worthy opponent for a couple of years now. He’s the only one in the park that kept playing with Harry, kept challenging him time and time again, like he knew Harry was alone and had no left that he could play chess with. Besides, Harry’s the only person in the park that can still beat Ted from time to time – when he lets him.

There’s not much Ted knows about Harry – only what Harry chooses to share. But if you ask Ted, Harry’s a fucking ace and a kind soul on top – which is apparently a rare thing to come by these days. Not that Harry would know.

 _Too good to be true,_ Ted said once, but back then he doesn’t know Harry past his game, like Harry never sacrificing his queen even if it means he’ll lose. Ted has no idea who Harry is, what he’s done in life or what he regrets the most. Harry is far from being too good – he’s not even close to being simply okay. The things he’s done and the people he’s hurt, the people who have hurt him, left him behind and alone; it’s not like there’s a whole list, but there are names – names that Harry’s tries his best to keep away from his head and out of his mouth.

Ted knows what he has to to never leave Harry hanging. He’s always there at the chess park, waiting for Harry to show up and lose. It’s the only relationship Harry has as of three years ago and he’s happy it’s Ted of all people that has never let him down.

Chess is about knowing what you’re doing, about being in complete control and having a good strategy. It’s about expecting your opponents every single move from beginning to end – not just one or two steps ahead. Chess demands your full attention, focus and concentration like no other game if you ask Ted or Harry.

Right now, Harry’s down to only a couple of pieces, but he doesn’t really need them, because Ted had been rubbing his fingers over his wrinkly forehead for the last ten minutes while he thinks of his next move. They’ve stopped using the official timer for their games, because as good as Ted’s game is, he’s getting too old to think fast enough, to move his pieces in less than a minute. He’s taking his time now, as he’s making a plan, right then and there, right in front of Harry’s eyes. And as Harry watches him and sees the way Ted’s tired eyes skip over the board in search of what to do next, he knows that he has it. Harry knows he’s won.

It’s Ted’s only mistake: he lets himself forget his plan and lose his train of thought. You’re never supposed to do that – _keep your eyes on the prize_ , and all that, but it’s true. You make a plan and you stick with it no matter what happens, no matter if everything goes wrong and you lose. You made a plan for a reason, so you go with it from beginning to end. It’s what Harry does – it’s what he always does.

“Your move,” Harry says calmly, because he knows it’s going to annoy Ted to no end and make him lose a couple extra seconds. Harry knows Ted, has studied him for more than a couple of years now.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ted grumbles and moves his horse to _b6_.

And Harry stays still. He doesn’t reach out to move his bishop or gets up to do some sort of a victory dance. Harry waits for Ted to see it, to get what he did – to see Harry’s plan. Harry watches Ted as he looks down at the board and he catches the exact moment when it clicks for him, when Ted sees it too.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...” Ted crosses his arms and smiles brightly, the wrinkles on his face gathering around his eyes. “Nice game, kid.”

“Thanks.” Harry shrugs, nods and doesn’t rub it in, because being a dick about winning is never a part of his strategy. He’ll be back and next time Ted will win. It’s how it goes.  “Didn’t think I’d win.”

“Me neither kid.” Ted’s laugh is muffled by a rough cough, but it doesn’t deter his smile. He pulls the hat from his head and leans back on the bench, arms still crossed.

“I’m not gonna be here next week.” Harry says it clearly, simply and doesn’t know why he ducks his head down. It might be the look on Ted’s face, how his smile drops, but it might be something else. “I’m going on a little holiday.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere,” Harry shrugs. He hasn’t made a plan, doesn’t know more than the names of the first couple of motels he’s going to hit, but other than that, it’s an open road ahead. “Just gonna drive around for a bit.”

Ted’s eyebrows pull together in doubt or confusion, but he doesn’t ask any more questions and Harry is grateful for it. He wouldn’t know how to answer them.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“And don’t get lost.”

Harry smiles, pushes his hair away from his face. “I won’t.”

“Call me when you get back, alright? I want to even the score here.”

“Of course.” Harry stands and turns to the ocean, wonders when he’ll see it again. Harry wonders if he’ll miss it.

“Have fun, kid. And you can call me just to talk too, you know. If you’ll need someone.”

Ted gives him a stern look, which means he’s being dead serious. Harry knows he had to call Ted to check in, he knows. He just needs to remember it.

With a firm handshake and a nod goodbye, Harry’s off to the parking lot, following his half formed plan.

* * *

 

When Harry was five, he desperately wanted a _Mustang_. It didn’t matter much which one, as long as it had thick racing stripes painted along the hood of it and Harry would have been happy. The thing with unnecessarily loud muscle cars with racing stripes is that they’re easily picked out of a crowd. You can see a _Bumblebee Camaro_ from a mile away – can hear it coming too. And that’s easy, standing out and being loud. It’s easy to starts jumping up and down until someone sees you – Harry does that by simply wearing one of his more flashy shirts. But blending in and going completely unnoticed and unrecognized – that’s what’s difficult. That actually takes time to perfect.

It’s why his parents had a _Ford f-type_ pickup, because they’re everywhere. It’s one of the most popular cars in the whole of America. Apparently, they sell twenty if not more of them every minute or so, and just that little piece of statistic alone is remarkable. The fact that it was an older, less expensive model that Des had repainted into a nice unnoticeable black was even better. The car was big too, maybe a little too big, since their only permanent possessions were clothes. It was practical and just about the only thing in their life that didn’t change as he was growing up.

That’s why Harry sold it to a guy two heads taller than him two weeks ago. Harry’s never had to sell a thing in his life, especially not something that he’s supposed to cherish, but as they signed the papers and the guy wrote the check, Harry didn’t feel anything. There was a very specific lack of emotion – of anything close to regret or relief. It didn’t make him feel better and it didn’t make him feel worse. It’s like Harry’s stuck on some middle ground: not quite lost, but not quite found. He has a collar and a tag, there’s just nothing written on it – no name and no number.

The guy got in the pickup and drove off, but all Harry did was nod once, like marking check on his to do list. Done and over with.

Harry buys himself a hotdog on a stick – a concept he’s never fully understood – for breakfast. Niall, the surfer dude that always offers a bright smile with the food, tries to make small talk with Harry, like he does every Monday and Friday. Every time Harry learns something new about the blonde and every time, Harry deflects Niall’s questions with shrugs and slow, measured steps away from the hotdog stand to subtly indicate his discomfort. It’s impolite, but it beats shutting Niall down with words, because Harry doesn’t actually mind the boy. He looks okay, like someone Harry could get along with if he had lived another life. Maybe they would’ve hung out or gotten spectacularly drunk together. But Harry doesn’t have friends. He has the people in the grocery store down the street from his house, who always smile at him and ask how his day’s going. He has his neighbors and he has Teddy. Maybe he has Niall too, the guy who makes a mean hotdog on a stick, but Harry doesn’t have friends.

When he gets back to his car, Harry leans against the side and turns his head so he’s looking at the ocean as he eats, taking his time with every bite. It’s a good day, a beautiful day with the sun shining and only a few puffy clouds in the distance, the ocean oily as if it’s in no rush to move.

Harry’s whole life has consisted of lessons – some that he’s learned and some that never quite stuck. One of them was to write down the plan, whatever it was for, because that way he wouldn’t forget and didn’t have to remember it at the same time. Harry has it all written down in his notebook, the moleskin he has at the bottom of his duffle bag. The plan for today is scribbled onto the pages as well, along the details of everything he’s done and everything that’s left to do.

He’s supposed to drive to the bank and park right in front of the entrance, so that he doesn’t need to spend a minute more inside than he absolutely has to. When he gets back on the road, he’s going to drive straight to a motel, no stopping – not even for bathroom breaks – and start his vacation. That’s it. Stay in the motel until it gets to be too monotone and boring, and then drive some more, find another motel. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The drive to the bank isn’t too long and there’s barely any traffic. Harry gets overtaken by a couple of cars – two _Ford f-type_ pickups and a nondescript hatchback – as he cruises, literally cruises along the streets, one hand on the wheel and the other hanging outside the window. His parents said that Fridays are the most optimal time to do their job, because people are lazier at the end of the week and their minds are already on the weekend to come. It’s also best, since the weekend is when even the police take some time off from investigating small crimes like a local bank robbery that barely manages to scrape the surface of their insurance policies. Friday was a set part of them plan, and something Harry doesn’t want to think about as he drives to the bank.

There’s a vacant lot right next to the entrance where Harry wanted to park his car today, which makes him breathe a little easier, since Harry’s never been to a bank for something other than a job before. He backs up the car onto the empty space to make this whole thing even quicker. He only has to get in, sign some papers, cash a check and get out. Simple as that.

His first time going near a bank was awful. Disastrous even. It was years ago and the memory that doesn’t feel entirely his anymore, not after doing it over and over and over again, until Harry couldn’t sleep at night knowing the mattress and the sheets and the room and the house were bought with tainted money – money his family didn’t earn – not exactly. Harry’s first mistake that first time was not spending enough time checking and researching the place out. He went for a drive around town and picked the second bank he saw. It was a small enough place, easy to control, but he didn’t know just how busy it got in the mornings. So the crowd of people was overwhelming and overpowering when Harry entered with a barely formed bravado. It took half a second for Harry to know that he would never be able to get away with it by himself.

When he turned around to walk back to the car where his parents were waiting for him, his head low on his shoulders, Harry couldn’t even look his dad in the eye for fear of what he’d find there. His mom was the one who told Harry that it was going to be okay, that it’s the exact reason why they wanted him to learn when they’re still around. And Harry did. He listened and he learned, and he’s never walked out of a bank empty-handed again.

He should be bitter about the memory now. Harry should want to keep it close to his heart, somewhere warm and soft so that it never floats or fades away, but as he steps out of the car, he crumples it up and throws it over his shoulder – giving it away like every other memory, selling it for cheap.

As the double glass doors slide open in front of his face, Harry immediately counts the people in the bank. It makes him stop mid-step, foot hanging awkwardly in the air as he curses himself and shakes his head. He doesn’t have to do it now, because the amount of people on the other side of the counter isn’t important anymore. It doesn’t matter as it is, because it’s what you don’t see – the ones working in the back are the ones you need to worry about. _The fewer the better_. Harry thinks of Jeff, a middle aged man with round glasses and a sweaty forehead that was shaking in his cheap suit when he saw Harry. Jeff turned out to be a good guy in the end. Jeff was okay.

Tracy. That’s the girl that catches Harry’s eye as soon as his brain refocuses from the number to the faces of the people in the bank. Tracy. It’s a pretty name fitting a pretty girl. Her hair’s wavy, falling over her shoulders and onto her chest in neat meticulous swoops, which means that Tracy wakes up early in the morning to look this good. She’s wearing a suit today, which looks miserable on her thin frame – she doesn’t have the shoulders to carry the weight of the dull blue jacket. She has nice eyes though, is what passes Harry’s mind as he’s walking towards her free counter before he stops right in front of Tracy with a grin on his face. Her eyes glow with light and remind Harry of autumn in a way that makes him shiver – a cold memory running down his spine.

 _Never make it just business_ , his mom said. You’re supposed to find something – something that will keep you grounded and focused – something personal. The trick is to make it personal, but still be as detached as you possibly can. And Harry could do just that. He’d pick Tracy – not for her unflattering pantsuit, not for her meticulously done make-up and not for the disdain smile she offers in return. He’d pick her because of the color of her eyes and the curve of her eyelashes, delicate and heavy with mascara, fanning along her cheeks like black feathers. They’re too round, but when she brings her eyes to meet Harry’s, it’s almost enough for him to go back to his car for a duffle bag, if only so he’d have the chance to look at her a little longer and pretend she’s someone else.

Tracy looks bored, like this is the last place she would ever want to be and Harry doesn’t have a hard time believing her. He thinks the only thing they have in common is pure and complete hatred for banks. Harry thinks how she would have no idea about what was coming if they’ve met a couple of years ago. Harry likes to think he’s smart, intuitive, but he has no idea what’s about to happen either.

Harry couldn’t have expected it, because life isn’t a chess game where all the pieces are in front of you – yours and your opponent’s – and you can see exactly what everyone is thinking. You can have a plan, even an innocent one like signing papers and cashing in checks, and you can stick with it all you want, but sometimes, things just go wrong. It happens. It’s happened before and it’ll definitely happen again – especially to Harry. No matter how much work you put into the preparation and the planning, and no matter how good you _think_ you are, some things are just out of your control. Like, for instance, the people that barge into your life – no warning, no nothing – with a wrecking ball and a license to destroy, pissing on your hard work for fun.

Harry’s listened to the bored drawl of Tracy’s voice, wondered if her manicured nails are a part of the job and desperately avoided making eye contact with her. She took his check and exchanged it for money – brand new hundred dollar bills that Harry’s never seen before. Harry smiled to himself and Tracy groaned. It was all very polite and professional – nothing Harry couldn’t handle. That is, until two men – judging by the depth of their voices – stomp into the bank.

“Everybody, stay where you are,” the taller, well-built one says, pointing the gun in every and all directions, like he’s confused – or maybe he’s just slow, Harry thinks.

“This is a bank robbery,” the other, small one declares. And Harry quickly changes his mind about which of the two is slow. He has the urge to say something as obvious as _no, duh_ or as risky as _really? I thought you were here for the booze_ , but Harry stays quiet instead, still standing in front of Tracy’s window.

They’re not confident, but they’re radiating this deep sense of owning the place. It’s not working, because Harry can see how they’re both shaking with their guns loaded in their hands. They probably don’t know half of what you need to to rob a bank. This is not going to go over well.

Harry always started with a polite, ‘Hi,’ because he thought it was a good opener and it usually got things going. It made him seem less threatening even if he had his fingers around a gun. He also never wore all-black outfits, because people don’t respond well to threatening colors. Des said to wear a white shirt and that it’s not a bad thing if it’s torn a little – it makes you look like you need the money more, like you _actually_ _need_ it.

But these two have black t-shirts, black jeans, black jackets and black ski masks, which is pushing it – the bank doesn’t even have security cameras. A baseball cap is enough to blur your face and to make it harder for witnesses to describe you as accurately as they could’ve if you didn’t bother to cover your face at all. Harry’s red and blue cap is in one of his bags, half waiting to be forgotten and half on its way to become a mantel piece of his memories.

Harry feels an innate urge to help them when they both start whipping their guns around at no one in particular. No one in the bank is moving but the two men, and no is talking, not even the men. Harry would love to help – could teach them a thing or two – but maybe he wants to sit this one out, enjoy his view from the bench. It’s not like they’re in the same league.

“It’s really easy,” the taller one speaks again, since the short guy clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself. It probably wasn’t his idea to do this. “You,” he points his gun towards Tracy, “Don’t move. You,” he aims it towards the other teller – Miranda, Harry can see her nametag from where he’s standing. “Fill this bag with everything you have.”

Harry always made sure to speak as quietly and calmly as he could manage. As a bank robber, you don’t want people to be alarmed or to entertain their fight or flight instincts for even the slightest of seconds, because someone always gets hurt – either the brave-hearts or the cowards. Neither makes the situation easier to control. It’s all about fines Harry realizes as he stands there, facing Tracy with his hands on the counter even if he wasn’t instructed to do so. Harry wants to get out of this unnoticed.

When Harry walked into the bank, he counted four people in total: Tracy, Miranda, and a older man in his mid-fifties filling out some forms at a small desk at the side. He knew there was just one manager at the back, because judging by the size of the place, two would be a redundancy. Now it’s five, including the guy that walks into the bank after the robbers and is instructed to stand at the side, out of Harry’s line of vision.

As Miranda gets busy shuffling money from below the desk and into the bright yellow bag the tall guy gave her – which is the item that really should be black – Tracy raises her plucked eyebrow and looks at Harry, with something along the lines of ‘Is this a joke?’ glinting in her eyes.

Harry shrugs minutely and smiles at her, tries to reassure her that everything’s going to be okay with the curve of his lips, his unshakable shoulders and steady hands.

Tracy doesn’t have a single ring on her fingers, so Harry doesn’t even wonder if she has a husband or a wife. A woman like Tracy would have her ring polished once month – it would be her prized possession.  She doesn’t have children to take care of that are waiting for her to pick them up after school or soccer practice, by the looks of her appearance. Maybe she has a fish named Goldie or a cat at most. Tracy is a bored bank teller. She isn’t trying to make something of herself anymore, because she knows that ship has sailed right after she finished community college and got hired here, so she’s bored. And bored means stupid – it means dangerous. Tracy is brave, because there isn’t much she has to lose.

 _Don’t panic. If it doesn’t go as you planned, just don’t panic._ That was one of Harry’s lessons. It didn’t always go smoothly for his parents, because you never know what kind of a person will be waiting for you behind the bulletproof glass. Some people can give you a hard time with handing over dollar bills, which honestly, Harry can understand. If it were him, Harry’s sure he would want to throw the money into the bag and help them run away to ensure nothing happens to him, but he also knows that, on those bad days when he struggles to even get out of bed, he’d put up a fight – he’d get smart and stupid at the same time and make it possibly the worst day of everyone’s lives.

But Harry doesn’t panic, he never panics, never gets too lazy or too excited. Harry’s as cool as he has to be. But he isn’t cool when Tracy shakes her head at him, her eyes wide and glazed over. She’s supposed to smile back, maybe nod in understanding. Harry has to steel himself for a moment, breathe in and out as he curses himself for leaving the gun in his bag.

It’s Harry’s turn to raise an eyebrow in question. That’s when Tracy shakes her head again and Harry thinks he’s going to lose his calm and patience right about now. He has no idea what’s happening. He’s lost.

The guys are fighting over something, whispering a little too loudly for their words to not reach Harry’s ears, but he’s not listening. Harry’s trying to figure out what that crazed look on Tracy’s face means.

Harry’s never particularly liked guns, not when he was old enough to hold one and not now, when there are two behind his back and out of his control. Anne said that having a gun is for incentive if anyone needs it, but Des stayed firm in the belief that it’s for protection too – that guns are meant to be used, but only when you absolutely have to. Des said that you can just promise someone the possibility of looking down the barrel to make them do what you want – maybe speed things up a little – even if you don’t actually have a gun.

They took Harry out for shooting practice, so that if it ever came down to it, he’d know what to do – how to hold it and pull the trigger like a pro. The idea seemed stupid to Harry, because really, you hold the gun, point it and bam. What more could there be, right? Well, it only took Harry one shot to find out that hitting the target is the part that needs to be practiced. It took some time – and a lot of Des yelling in his face while Anne tried to calm both of them down – for Harry to hit the bull’s-eye. Or, in his case, the tin cans lined up a few yards away from where he was standing, feet spread apart and his back straight. Not that Harry would ever brag about it, but years of not being allowed to do anything else insured he got good. Like, properly good at firing a gun.

He hasn’t needed to be thought, not until today, when he doesn’t even have a gun on him to use. The quick thought of overpowering one of the guys comes to mind and it’s not impossible: he could distract them with some stupid story until he’d be close enough to jump on the short guy. But Harry doesn’t need to be associated to another bank robbery, not when he only has one strike left.

“Shut up,” the shorter of the two yells in the other guy’s face, clearly not having it. “Hundreds only.”

Harry doesn’t know why Tracy shook her head, but isn’t saying anything at least under her breath. Maybe it’s something the men wouldn’t want to overhear. Harry has to wonder. It’s unnerving. He would want to know if he was the one robbing the bank. He would’ve paid attention and made sure to pick up on the way Tracy’s breathing has picked up. He doesn’t care when it comes down to it, not really, which is a mistake, because even if you’re not the one in control, you’re still supposed to _pay_ _attention._ When someone moves behind you, you see it, and when a bank teller – who’s probably seen a movie or two – looks at you like she’s afraid for you, like she thinks the guys robbing the bank are the dumbest fucks she’s ever seen, you’re supposed to know why.

There’s not a movement too small or a voice too quiet. Harry listens to the chatter in the back, follows every move of Miranda’s hands with his eyes as well as the way Tracy’s are shaking. They should’ve picked Tracy, Harry knows. She looks a lot more frightened and would probably do it quicker. Miranda isn’t that bad, but she’s slow and speed is a part of doing a good job.

“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” the taller guy says clearly enough, so everyone hears him, so everyone knows they haven’t come to empty their magazines. Harry knows they only want the money.

Miranda keeps filling their bag and Harry keeps his eyes on every important person in the room. He doesn’t like how he can feel someone moving over his shoulder. Harry cranes his neck and flicks his eyes to see what’s happening. It doesn’t surprises him to see the older man trying to hide behind a huge plant, like the leaves are bullet-proof or something. If Harry wanted to shoot the guy, he could do it without looking, just aim his gun around his side and flex his index finger, because he wasn’t allowed to do anything more than absolutely perfect his shooting skills. It would be too easy, even with a damn ficus in the way. But these two, Harry’s doubtful they’re anything close to competent shooters. The way the short guy loosely holds the gun makes Harry think he’s never seen one before in his life – but at the same time, he’s gripping it like it’s his life-life and he wants to get it as far away from his body as he can.

 “You,” the tall guy points his gun at the man. “Yes, you,” he nods when the man’s eyes bulge out. When Harry looks over, he isn’t sure if the guy is going to pass out, vomit or both. “Stand over there.”

He shuffles, the man actually shuffles in these little half steps that take a whole eternity to get him to the spot where the guy is pointing at, back at the row or desks where he came from. The man looks petrified, like he’s ready to call his wife and tell her he loves her for the very last time. He’s sweating too and Harry can see how his forehead glistens when he passes him to stand closer to the desk.

“Look.” The guy lowers his gun a little, just to make the man feel better probably – he still gives Miranda a pointed look that’s meant to say _don’t stop._ “We’re not gonna shoot anyone, okay? You’re fine.”

He probably thinks it’ll calm the man down some, but it doesn’t seem like his words have any effect at all. The man just nods stiffly and Harry thinks can hear him sniffle.

“What’s your name?” The guy asks with a sigh. This is not what he’s here for, Harry knows, but he can finally relate to them. They have no idea what they’re doing, but at least they care about the people they might be hurting in the process. They might not be as incompetent as Harry thought at first.

“Um,” the man chokes a little. He looks down as he fixes his thick glasses with shaky fingers. “My – I’m Mitch.”

“Hi Mitch.” The short guy smiles and nods at him. Harry feels like he should step to him and shake his hand too. Harry’s never been comfortable with making people this nervous. He doesn’t know why they get like this, because the last thing he would want to do is make these strangers nervous – and these guys seem to be thinking the same thing.

“You’re fine,” the tall guy repeats, just for the sake of it. Harry thinks it must be the gun. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Just, don’t do anything stupid.”

It isn’t the best thing to end with, but they aren’t babysitters. It isn’t their job to calm people down and make sure they don’t pass out. It’s not their fault that Mitch doesn’t get what they’re saying.

Once Mitch and the other guy at the back are closer together and the charming couple of theives don’t have to be as attentive to what’s happening with the people around them – Mitch isn’t stupid or brave enough to try anything again – they focus back on Miranda, on how she’s actually starting to try and get this over with as soon as possible.

It’s the way Tracy’s head twitches that brings Harry’s attention back to her. She twitches when the chatter form the back gets louder – the chatter Harry presumed was just the manger talking on the phone. Harry was sure of it. He assumed it was nothing, but assuming in this line of business is never good. It’s highly discouraged and severely frowned upon. You should never assume, not when you’re the one with the gun and it’s your plan. These two are just about to learn that lesson firsthand.

Harry was always prepared. He made a plan, wrote it down in his notebook so that he didn’t forget anything, and he was always ready. He had the addresses of four different motels around Vegas dotted down on the last page, the number of the rooms and how long he would be staying there, because Harry always had a plan and was always prepared – for every last step.

The two blue uniforms Harry sees walking out of the narrow doorway that’s right behind Tracy’s back is not something Harry’s prepared for.

What Harry wasn’t taught, a thing that neither Ann nor Des actually needed to explicitly tell him is that cops aren’t the good guys. When you’re robbing a bank – or at least trying to – cops are bad, the antagonists, and the guys you should avoid at all cost. If cops show up at the bank, Harry was supposed to run – run as fast as he could and drive away even faster. He wasn’t supposed to ever come back to the bank – if not town, because having eyewitnesses is one thing, but having actual policemen knowing what you look like is a completely different scenario.

It’s not something these two fools have to worry about with their ridiculous masks, but everything else should make them shake in their black sneakers.

The thing that goes through Harry’s head in the moment he crouches down is that it was a good day. It was such a good day to move on and let go, sell the house and get out of town, but now everything’s gone to shit. Before Harry has the chance to stand up and _run_ , he can already hear the steady, “Hold right there,” that he thought was something of a myth.

 _You’re not supposed to shoot unless you’re getting shot at,_ is a lesson that Harry taught himself. It’s simple, really, rational too, since bullets cost money and well, it’s not like he has heaps of it saved under the mattress. Harry has pulled the trigger more times that he can count. He’s hit those cans one by one, like ticking items off of his pedantic list. But he’s never shot a person before. It’s not something Harry wanted to think about – why he was practicing on the tin cans in the first place.

And now, in the blink of an eye that took one of the cops to pull out his gun, bullets are flying before Harry can even think.

 _Don’t kill if you absolutely don’t have to_ is ringing in his head, louder than anything ever before. Harry doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. There are sounds of guns firing, cops getting shot, but nothing hits Harry as he’s crouched in front of Tracy’s part of the counter. There’s someone running towards the door, right past Harry, but he doesn’t make it and falls down face first on the floor. He can distinctly hear someone yelling – maybe one of the cops, maybe one of the robbers – as he instinctively pulls the guy closer, so that they’re almost chest to back. He doesn’t know why he does it, but he doesn’t bother with sticking around to figure it out.

There’s only one thing left to do when silence falls and guns run empty, and Harry’ll be damned if someone messes this up too. As quickly as possible he starts to drag the person with him, stopping right as he gets to the glass doors and, for a second, Harry turns back around to look at the mess that’s been made. The broken vase and the ficus are on the floor now, the papers are flying in the air and one cop is just standing there, pointing his empty gun at Harry without blinking – this is what gets your face on the TV and your name broadcast on the local radio, Harry thinks as he stands there.

The sound of a gun firing again echoes through the mess of the bank, but Harry knows it wasn’t meant for him, that someone else caught the bullet. And as Harry stands there, he has the instinct to tell the cop that he should practice his shooting. Harry almost tells him about the tin cans before he disappears out the door.

With a look Harry hopes conveys how sorry he is and that he hopes everything will be okay aimed at Mitch, who’s clutching his head as he’s splayed on the floor, Harry runs out of there, still holding onto the person pressed against his chest.

Harry’s sure the other cop is calling for back-up right as Harry unlocks his car. He doesn’t know what happened and how everything managed to go to shit in a matter of less than a single second. Harry doesn’t know who started shooting, why the cops didn’t shoot down the robbers in the first place and why he _knew_ the cop was going to miss him. He doesn’t know how he missed the chatter in the back. Harry’s never been this stupid.

He’s not really present as he refuses to let go of the arm he’s clutching to. Harry doesn’t know what’s making his legs move under the weight of another person, but he’s sure it’s not him. It must be adrenaline – his flight or fight instinct – and Harry’s never felt like he needed to flee like this before.

There are three things Harry is certain of as he reaches his car. The first is that he’s going to follow his plan, because he’s nothing if not consistent. Harry has nothing but his plan. The second thing Harry doesn’t want to think about is that his parents had been in this exact situation once before, and Harry didn’t hear a single lesson about it. He doesn’t know what to do now, after guns are empty and it’s over, because they never managed to tell him.

The last thing that settles onto Harry’s chest for the first time is that he’s alone. It’s nothing new, not even close to a revelation, because Harry’s known it for years now. But it still crawls up his back like an epiphany. Anne and Des had each other – they had Harry. When they fought on those rare occasions – like all couples do – one of them had Harry, whether it was a shoulder for Anne to lean her head on or an ear to listen to Des fume about his unreasonable wife. They were a family before anything else, before not having a house to call a home for all of Harry’s childhood or the money they needed to steal. There was the two of them first, and when Harry learnt to drive, they were a team of three people. But it’s never been so painstakingly clear before. Harry’s completely alone.

There will be a time for him to dissect everything that went horribly wrong today, but right now, with however many cop-cars headed this way, Harry just needs to go. And he needs to go as fast as he can. He opens the back door of the car and pushes the guy onto the seats before he jumps to the front and starts the car. The money he came here for is in the back pocket of his jeans, safe and sound. And as Harry drives onto the freeway – mindful of the speed limits – he’s glad at least this part of the plan will work as it’s supposed to.

But his plan actually did work. After weeks of preparing and selling anything of worth that he had – the car, the house, Anne’s jewelry, Des’s watches – Harry went ahead with his plan, cashed his check and is on his way out of town – almost. There is no plan B, no other variation Harry can fall back on if anything else goes wrong. It’s done and it’s over and now he just has to leave – simple as that.

He drives back to the Chess Park in silence, because it’s the only place he can think of to make a quick stop. There are probably people playing there right now, people that know him and might see him, which Harry may need some day. Harry just needs to park the car and think. He won’t need more than a couple of minutes to himself.

He parks as far away from the hotdog stand as he can, just in case Niall would want to chat like he usually does and gets out of the car to get some air. It would actually be a good idea to talk to Niall, but as the boy waves in Harry’s direction as soon as he’s standing, he nips the idea. Harry just needs a hint of an alibi and nothing more. And that wave is it.

All Harry wanted to do was leave. He can’t wake up in that house one more time and he can’t walk past his parent’s closed bedroom door again. Harry wanted to leave three years ago, when he could hear how his life was cracking apart – one loud rip right across the lake and he was underwater, no way of getting out from underneath the thick cold ice. The ground beneath Harry’s feet didn’t disappear – it was taken away from him. Harry’s had to forget everything he knew, everyone he loved. He’s as alone as anyone has ever been.

Harry doesn’t have uncles to call, he doesn’t have friends from the road that he could stay with – there’s no one Harry knows, because he burned all those brides a long time ago. He could stay here for a couple of weeks to see what happens, to keep an eye out for his face and listen to the radio for any news of his name. Harry could jump on the plane with the money he has now and go somewhere – he thinks he has enough money to stay abroad for a couple of months at least. And while all of that could work, Harry can’t get past his plan. It’s still there. Or at least what’s left of it. There are still some items that need to be ticked off and checked out.

Before he’s able to make up his mind, he hears a knock coming from the car. A rush of panic envelops him before he remembers the guy, the one he couldn’t let go of. Harry can still feel how he gripped the guy’s arms in his fingers. He can feel the indents of a back across his chest like he’s still holding the guy there.

Harry walks to the back of the car and looks through the window, but doesn’t bother to open the door. He doesn’t know why he kept dragging the guy as he tried to get away from the bank. Harry had no idea what he was doing in those minutes between now and when the first bullet flew through the air. Now he does though, because as he peeks inside the car, Harry realizes why he couldn’t leave him behind.

It’s almost like this day is trying to get him back for everything Harry’s ever done that was even slightly questionable or a bit morally obscured. You swat at a fly once – and by accident at that – and the universe remembers. The universe always remembers, even when it seems like everything’s forgiven and forgotten, it gets you when you least expect it. Like now, for instance, because on top of this day, what he needs is Zayn Malik sitting in the back of his car with what appears to be a bullet wound somewhere on his arm. Universe: 1, Harry: 0.

There’s blood on the back seats, Harry see the smudges on the fabric when he opens the door. It isn’t the worst blow of the day, but it does mean he’s going to have to clean his car, as if he needed anything else to worry about. He sincerely doubts life is fair, because Zayn is just sitting there, with one leg hanging out of the car and the stupidest grin Harry’s ever seen on a person spread over his face, as if he’s happy to see him.

 _Never take hostages, because it’s not what we do._ That was a little reminder, something Anne said in passing in case Harry didn’t know what he was supposed to do. You keep your eyes on the money, not the people you might hurt in the process. Or, the people that get hurt because of something you have to do, something Harry fought against doing in the end, when it was already too late. Zayn is far from being Harry’s hostage, but Harry’s sorry for dragging him to his car. Harry’s finding he’s sorry for a lot of things he’s done today.

“Still following me around, I see?” Harry crosses his arms, and he feels almost petulant by doing so, but he doesn’t care. This is not a good day.

“Still incompetent?”

“Fuck you,” Harry bites back.

“Yeah, nice to see you too.”

“Speak for yourself,” Harry huffs as he turns around and climbs back into the car. He hears the back door close as he turns the key in the ignition and starts to make his way back on the freeway.

Harry looks over his shoulder once he settles onto the fast lane. Zayn’s features are relaxed and his lip’s in a slight smirk, like he’s enjoying this, but he would. Zayn’s fine. Harry can see where his arm goes from clean to a bloody mess and he can barely remember Des explaining how to treat a bullet wound, but Harry better remember soon.

Zayn is fine, Harry repeats to himself as he hears him wince and gasp in pain. Harry can easily drive them to some town and deposit Zayn in front of a hospital before he goes back to his plan. Harry’s back on the road and back to his plan. Not even Zayn Malik can make this day any worse. Besides, leaving Zayn behind shouldn’t be a problem. Harry’s done it before. You could almost say he’s an expert at leaving Zayn.


	2. Thick as Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will not be up by Saturday, because this semester has started with a fucking bang. So, next update will be up in two weeks, instead of one.  
> Enjoy!

In the three hours Harry’s spent driving and a short ten minute stop to fill up the car, he’s has almost convinced himself that what happened at the bank is his fault, because he just – he should have known better. He should have warned the two guys about his gut feeling that something was up. Not that there’s a code or anything that says one ex-bank robber should help another less competent bank robber when shit hits the fan. Technically, Harry didn’t have to say anything, but he should have, because his parents would. Des would have his gun on his person to begin with and Anne would’ve helped from the get go and their awful movie lines.

Out of all of them, his sixteenth birthday is Harry’s favorite. Excited and impatient, Harry passed the written exam with such flying colors and his driving test so damn fast, that Anne and Des laughed at his speed and determination. But it was a rite of passage. It meant Harry could finally help.

Des taught Harry how to drive – or the basics of it – when Harry was ten years old and could barely reach the pedals with the tips of his toes, but it was for emergency cases only. If anything happened and Harry would have to be the one to drive as fast as he knew how, then it didn’t matter that he couldn’t even see above the steering wheel. When Harry turned sixteen and got his license, he officially became a contributing part of their family, as the get-away driver.

It wasn’t anything special, really. It wasn’t even an important job, because when it comes down to it, Anne and Des didn’t need a driver for more than ten years before that. But then Des bought Harry his very first car: a battered old pickup that never could start until at least the second try. And it was Harry’s prized possession for years, before they got him a new car, a shiny _Ford f-type_ pickup that Harry couldn’t stand to look at any longer – the same one he sold two weeks ago.

They always had a plan. Harry had to drive his parents to the bank, stop the car at a corner, and when he’d see them walking out of the bank with heavy bags and quick feet, he would start the car, drive up to them and then – without a rush – continue to drive back to a certain point they set up beforehand.  Easy and not at all crucial to the operation, but Harry felt like a missing part, as if since he began helping, every piece just fell into place and the world was that much better. Harry became a part of their plan. Harry finally felt useful.

As he drives down the _Ontario Freeway_ , Harry keeps checking the rearview mirror. He wants to pretend that he doesn’t know why, that it’s a subconscious thing he does when he drives – looking at the cars as he passes them – but he knows he doesn’t glance out of the back window once. It’s Zayn and his pout, his damn lips that pucker in his sleep like they did when Zayn was six and ten and seventeen. It’s like time has stood still and they’re back in Boulder city, Zayn dropping off as soon as Harry started driving.

The first thing Harry did when Des parked the old pickups in front of the _Nevada Inn_ and Anne jumped up and down while singing happy birthday off pitch, was take it for a drive with Zayn sitting in the passenger seat. That was six years ago, when Harry hadn’t stepped foot in a bank and Zayn was just as excited about Harry’s car. Six years ago was a much simpler time and Harry didn’t need to pretend he wasn’t stealing glances. Then, he could stare all he wanted, and Harry did. All until he couldn’t take it any longer, so pulled up at the side of the road to touch and kiss and stare some more, bite and lick all over Zayn’s skin.

They used to drive for hours. They parked somewhere in the desert and just lied there in the back of the pickup, looking at the stars or tasting each other’s lips – passing the time like they always did. That was when Harry and Zayn were best friends, inseparable even if separated by miles and miles of complicated lives that somehow crossed paths once a year when Des and Anne took them back to Boulder for a visit.

It wasn’t long after his sixteenth birthday – maybe a couple of months or so – when Anne made the executive decision to let Harry help with the plan – at least the part with where they were going to go next. Harry was the one driving, the one in control of where they went and consequently, which bank they were going to visit next.

Harry’s been doing this since he was sixteen, first as an onlooker and then as a driver, before he made his way up to working alone, collecting dollar bills like they were more than just pieces of paper that put food in his mouth. That first time when he entered a bank and then promptly left empty handed was seven years ago. Seven years and not once has he been worried. Harry hasn’t doubted his own plan since that first time. But then, Harry’s never had someone with a bullet wound lying on the backseat of his car either.

Zayn hasn’t woken up in the hour and a half that they’ve been driving and Harry takes it as a good sign. Harry’s not an expert, so of course he was worried at first, because what if Zayn’s wound is more serious that it looks? It sounds like it hurts from the winces Zayn’s breathing out every once in a while, when he twitches or tries to turn. Anne and Des were good parents. They made sure to teach Harry everything they could and everything they knew. They made sure to cover all the grounds, but they never got the chance to touch on the subject on what happens is someone’s dying. _That_ was not one of the things they talked about. So Harry isn’t sure if the fact that Zayn hasn’t woken up since Santa Monica is actually a good sign or not, but he’s choosing to see it that way. Zayn’s resting and Harry doesn’t have to think about him until he wakes up.

Those cops haven’t left Harry’s thoughts though, because he still isn’t completely sure about what exactly happened and how things went so incredibly wrong so incredibly fast. There isn’t a moment that Harry can point to and say _that’s where they fucked up_ , because one moment Miranda was stuffing the duffle bag and the next, Harry’s pretty sure a cop got shot. That’s the fastest escalation he’s ever seen. Almost.

Harry’s brought out of his head by a loud groan. It’s a sound that feels so painful Harry almost slams the breaks, because he half feels it as well, somewhere deep in his chest. He can see Zayn in the rear-view mirror, but his eyes are still closed, his arm all bloody and his face scrunched up in a deep frown. It must hurt if Zayn can’t sleep in peace, but it would, Harry thinks. A bullet wound probably doesn’t tickle.

Zayn sounds like Harry does when he has a fever – releasing these labored harsh breaths, because it gives you the false sense of feeling better, like you’re breathing out your pain and it’ll get better as soon as you can exhale deeply enough. Harry can relate to being hurt, but he’s never been shot, never felt the piercing ache of a bullet.

Harry turns his head quickly, just to look at Zayn for a second and see him better, and it’s clear that Zayn doesn’t just sound like he’s in pain, he looks like it too. His eyebrows are pulled close together and he’s biting his bottom lip in his sleep. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been in that much physical pain. His wound looks almost raw – so much so that Harry has to turn around and look back at the road, at the cars and the road signs and the paved freeway. He never wanted to see someone get hurt. Especially Zayn, of all people.

Hurting was never in his plan. Harry wouldn’t step on an ant, no less fire a gun at a human being. Who knows how many years of therapy Mitch will need to cope with what’s happened. Or if Miranda will be able to go back to the bank, if the cop made it out alive. Well, at least Tracy’s life isn’t as boring anymore.

All Harry wanted was to cash his check. All he wanted was to finally leave it all behind him and move on, start off fresh somewhere he’s never been, like a small town on the outskirts of Nevada maybe. Harry wanted to cut away all the anchors dragging him down, live for himself for once in his life – the first time in his twenty-two years.

 “Where are we?” Zayn rasps, his throat probably dry. If it’s possible, Zayn sounds like what Harry would imagine someone does right before they die. It’s an unsettling thought.

Harry could easily lie to Zayn. He could say he’s taking him to a hospital and then out to dinner to catch up. Or Harry could face the fact that he’s the last person Zayn wants to see and tell him he’s leaving him again. Harry can throw Zayn out of the car at the next gas station. But Harry has never been a very enforcing person away from the bank, especially as empty-handed as he is now. He can’t just make commands and have people follow them. He can’t lie to someone. Harry can’t lie to Zayn.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Zayn groans as he sits up, his left arm hanging at his side. “Where are we?” Zayn asks again and well, Harry technically didn’t answer his question, but he knows it’s just Zayn being Zayn.

“Ontario Freeway,” Harry explains. “We’re on the way to a hospital.”

“Good, yeah. Hospital.”

“You should try to sleep,” Harry reassures him in a soothing tone, but not the one he had to learn and perfect – the one he almost forgot he had.

“I can’t.” Now that Zayn’s awake, it’s like he’s trying to make Harry feel bad. “My arm hurts.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out. “It was my fault.” Harry has to make it clear once Zayn doesn’t say anything else. He feels stupid saying it, but he needs to be honest about this.

“What are you talking about?” Zayn’s eyes narrow, Harry can feel it. “You weren’t the one robbing the bank.”

It’s as far away from an accusation as it could be. It’s really just the plain old truth, so Harry doesn’t know why it bothers him so much when he hears Zayn say it, like he’s usually the one doing it, like Harry ever wanted to do it. It feels like he’s being sentenced to something, except Harry’s not sure what the sentence is.

“Not this time, no.” Harry’s never felt quite like this before, like he needs to puff out his chest and raise his head so that Zayn knows it’s nothing Harry is ashamed of. It’s who he is, who he’s always been and Harry’s never been the type to put himself down, even if hates that part of himself – the one that took and took and took until he couldn’t close his eyes at night. “But I had a bad feeling. I saw the cops first and I should’ve done something.”

Zayn makes a noise like he’s laughing, but it kind of sounds like pained breaths of air that are far too labored to not hurt. “So,” he wheezes out. “You blame yourself, because you didn’t help the bad guys?”

Harry gasps. “We’re not the bad guys!”

“You were though if I remember correctly.”

“-shut up.”

“-and now you’re not,” Zayn continues, undeterred. Zayn would cross his arms over his chest if he could. Harry can feel him twitching behind his back, trying to get comfortable. “So why should you help?”

Harry squawks, almost indignantly. “Because!”

“Wow, you made such a good argument, I don’t know what to say,” Zayn says boldly, his words cutting right through Harry, deep into his skin like a blade. He thinks he can imagine what if feels like to get shot after all.

“Look.” Harry turns to look at Zayn for a second.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how much experience you have robbing banks and all, but I do know a thing or two about it. If it makes me feel like crap to see someone be so bad at it, then that’s my problem. And if I want to help, then that’s my problem too. Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

Harry sounds more like he’s pleading than anything else, but Zayn still raises his good arm, as if showing he’s going to stop or he’s surrendering. Harry doesn’t miss the fact Zayn’s smirking as he does it, but he chooses not to acknowledge it.

“Where are we?” Zayn asks – again. Harry knows he’s trying to change the subject.

“I told you. I’m driving you to the hospital.”

“And where would this hospital be?”

Harry pauses unintentionally. He really doesn’t want to lie to Zayn, because he has no reason to, but for a second, he thinks maybe he should. “Vegas.”

“What?” Harry can hear Zayn groaning and almost sobbing again as he jumps a little when he hears him.

This is how it works though. Zayn isn’t in a position to make requests or demands. He doesn’t really have a say when it comes to where they’re going. They’ve been driving for almost two hours now and Harry doesn’t plan on stopping until he’s lying on a comfortable bed in a nameless motel on the outskirts of Vegas. His back is starting to act up again and lying on a comfortable bed sounds wonderful right about now.

“You not a fan of the casinos anymore?” Harry asks and tries to forget about the whole situation.

“Not really, no.”

Harry checks the rearview mirror and sees the frown on Zayn’s face. Really, Harry looks, actually looks at Zayn for the first time in three years, instead of just passing glances at his eyes or arm. Zayn’s skin is still a stark contrast to Harry’s rosy pale and Harry can’t help but feel that tinge of desperation that’s always been there, back when they were lying in bed and Harry had his hand spread over Zayn’s chest. Harry’s always wanted to have his hands on Zayn – his palm on his cheek, finger on his bottom lip, hands running across his back – the warmth of it, the taste, how Zayn’s skin felt underneath his fingertips has always been a temptation for Harry.

Zayn’s holding his wounded arm with his right hand. Maybe it takes some of the ache away or maybe he’s doing it subconsciously, holding the part that hurts like an indication of where he’s broken, where he needs to be fixed. Zayn’s holding himself together with just the palm of his hand, and it’s probably the reason why he looks different, as if he’s aged twenty years, stronger and wiser, capable of anything, but still broken down in this very moment.

“How’s your arm?”

Zayn makes a hurt noise as he turns his head and lifts his arm to look at the wound. It’s too bloody to see anything, so Zayn just shrugs and goes to hold it again.

“It’s not that bad,” Zayn states assuredly. And that’s just like him, Harry thinks as he shakes his head, never admitting he needs help or that he’s in pain, that not everything is as flawless and perfect as he likes to think. From what Harry can hear, it is that bad.

When Anne and Des took Harry out to shoot, the other thing Des taught him besides how to hold the gun and if it comes to it, where to shoot a person, was what to do if you get shot. There were the head and heart bullet wounds that Anne jokingly said to avoid, but there were also the gut, the leg and the arm wounds that Des talked about. _The bullet needs to get out,_ was the lesson. Just those words, just that if the bullet went it, but didn’t go out, Harry would need to find it and take it out himself. The leg was the easiest, since he would be able to do it himself if the bullet wasn’t too deep. The gut involved a lot of bleeding Harry wouldn’t be able to keep control over and the arm, well, that’s hard to reach.

The problem with bullet wounds, or at least the problem that Harry can remember, was that if you walk into the hospital and say you got shot, the cops come and ask you all sorts of questions that you might not be able to answer. At the time, Harry didn’t quite see that as a problem, not if he got shot and was on his way to being dead. Dubious answers aren’t that hard to come by when your life depends on it. Now though, with Zayn on the backseat of his car, Harry realizes just how big of a problem that actually might be.

Another glitch was that if you’re conscious enough to start digging for a bullet in your own leg, you’re sure to pass out. The pain of ripping your own flesh apart is too much to take for a person. It’s a failsafe – when you’re in too much pain, when it’s excruciating and overwhelming, and your body is shutting down, you pass out so you don’t feel it. You fall asleep and dream of falling but you never hit the ground and you never come to a standstill. It’s the body’s way of protecting itself. That’s why, the lesson was a short and simple _don’t get shot._ Simple enough.

So the only option Zayn has – and he’s thought of them all – is possibly the hospital. After everything, Harry can’t just leave Zayn behind. _You never leave a man behind._ And that apparently applies even to the people you’ve already left once. But Harry couldn’t do it again. He can’t.

“I can drop you off at the hospital,” Harry says again.

“That sounds perfect, yeah.”

“If I do, then cops are going to get involved.”

Zayn frowns momentarily. “Isn’t that just how it works in movies and shit?”

“And where do you think they got the idea from?”

“Okay, well what would they ask?”

“How you got shot, who shot you, the expected questions.”

“Can I lie?” Zayn asks, but he’s probably asking himself more than Harry.

“What do you think?” Harry still answers though, because it’s a stupid question. “They do actually go and verify anything you tell them, you know?”

“Actually no, I don’t know, because I’ve never been shot before,” Zayn snips, angry and frustrated, but Harry can’t blame him. This situation is such a fucking mess.

“Can’t you just drop me off in the next town?” Zayn says while he keeps his eyes on the window, focused on something else completely.

“It doesn’t matter which hospital you go to. You’re gonna have to talk to the cops wherever you go.” Harry tries to sound polite, civil, but he doesn’t know if he manages it. “And it’s not like you have to lie.”

“Didn’t you just say how you should’ve helped the other guys?”

“Yeah, but _you_ don’t have to help them if you don’t want to.”

“And _you_ don’t owe me anything, okay? Just let me out here.” Zayn’s getting impatient, in that way where soon his hands will be shaking and he’ll be short of breath, grabbing at his hair until tears prickle his eyes.

Harry gets the panic, the delayed shock Zayn must be feeling from just being around gunfire, not to mention getting shot. But Zayn is also in no shape to make decisions right now, his mind racing, and Harry tells him as much. Zayn doesn’t agree though.

“Just let me out.” Zayn’s gasping for air already, his eyes blown wide as he’s trying to get out of the car. He can’t, Harry knows, and he’s never been so thankful for rusty doors.

“I can’t stop here,” Harry states in his calm voice, the one he only uses when he’s standing in front of a cashier, because it makes him sound nonthreatening, like he’s a friend instead of a foe. Like he knows what he’s doing and he can be endlessly patient. “I’ll stop as soon as I can, but I can’t stop here, okay?”

Zayn’s still struggling with the door, so Harry clicks the switch to roll down the back windows, letting a gush of air into the car.

“Fuck.” Zayn pushes his head through as soon as the windows start rolling down. He’s breathing in lungful’s of air. The distress Zayn must be feeling is understandable. Harry knows Zayn, no matter how much time has passed, and he knows the panic isn’t about the bullet in his arm. It’s definitely not just about the arm.

“You okay?”

Zayn hangs there, his good arm propped against the edge of the car door as his head rests on top of it. His eyes are closed and as far as Harry can see, he’s just breathing, just taking in the fresh air – slow and steady. Strangely, Zayn looks peaceful and not for the first time, Zayn looks utterly beautiful.

When Harry looks in the mirror he can clearly see Zayn’s eyelashes, splayed against his cheek in a delicate curve that Harry could never forget. His bottom lip is jutted out and he looks just like he does when he’s asleep – pouting. His dark hair sways with the wind, and as Harry drives, thinking of where he could drop Zayn off – thinking of if he’s ready to leave him behind again – Zayn doesn’t move and hed doesn’t open his eyes. He just breathes.

“I finally leave and now you’re driving me back.” Zayn doesn’t speak loudly, still doesn’t move, so Harry doesn’t interrupt. He thinks Zayn needs to say this. “I couldn’t stay there anymore. I had to get out and when I finally fucking do, Harry Styles is driving me right back.

Harry bites his lip, but he can’t find anything to say. Nothing he could say would change anything.

“I spent twenty-three years in that town and I’ve barely moved on.”

The thing with Harry’s plans is that, besides the details that changed from week to week, they’re all more or less the same. All of his plans – even the one he decided on two weeks ago – have a set outline. There are the parts that don’t fluctuate and the ones Harry needs to think about and move around. And it won’t be next week or a week after that, but Harry could go back to Santa Monica. They always went back to Santa Monica and the small stretch of beach there. Harry would never leave Teddy hanging like that.

So Harry could tell Zayn that once the events of today blow over and settle down, he can drive him back to where he found him. Maybe not right to the bank, but Harry could take him to Santa Monica and drop him at a bus stop or wherever Zayn wanted to go. It wouldn’t be a hassle – at least not the driving him part. But, the part where they would need to stay together for that time, until Harry could actually drive him back. That’s the part Harry is second guessing.

Harry’s never shared his plan with anyone – not even his parents – because some things are meant to be kept a secret. Some things are better left unsaid. Sometimes, it’s good to keep something close to your heart- Just a small piece of a memory even, because that way, no one can take it away from you.

 “I’ll go back,” Harry starts to say slowly, choosing his words carefully as he does – cautious to not overshare. “I think I’ll go back in a month.”

Zayn’s response isn’t immediate, but Harry’s not surprised. Zayn’s always needed time to think before he speaks, but when his reply comes, it’s no more than a thoughtful hum. He doesn’t offer anything else beyond that.

“I can take you back,” Harry insists. He sounds like he’s half desperate for it, like he would do anything for Zayn, because Zayn’s always exceled in making Harry’s hands sweat and his heart beat faster. Zayn’s always known how to make Harry tick.

So he hums again.

“We can stop in the next town. I’d like to take a look at your arm.”

“A month?” Zayn asks then, using his words.

“We usually stayed away for a month, yeah,” Harry nods and keeps looking back in the mirror. Zayn still hasn’t opened his eyes.

“What did you do? For that month, I mean?”

Harry shrugs to himself and thinks back to how they spent every day of the two weeks he was in San Diego at the zoo, and how it really does always rain in Seattle, so there wasn’t all that much _to_ do. But then he thinks of Boulder city and everything he’s done there, everyone he saw and all the people he fell in love with during those summers. Zayn knows what he’s doing, he just doesn’t realize it. “I wait.”

Zayn hums again, but he finally opens his eyes and looks out at the cars they’re steadily passing. “Do you want some company?”

It shouldn’t take Harry by surprise, but it does. He works alone, that’s how it’s always been. Even when his parents were showing him the ropes and sending him on easy jobs where he only had to pick a bank, Harry was always alone. Anne and Des waited in the car while Harry stomped to the small convenient store and it’s how Harry’s always preferred it. But then, Zayn isn’t asking to be his get-away driver. It’s only a month of sitting in a motel room together, of basking in the hot Nevada sun.

Before Harry knows what he’s doing, the word, “Yeah,” comes out of his mouth.

Harry doesn’t think about how he changed more kindergartens than he can remember. How he didn’t go to primary school or high school and how he’s never been to a school dance. Des never got the chance to help Harry with his science project and Harry’s never brought a date home. Harry didn’t get to have a best-friend from one of his classes or from down the street. Harry’s never really had neighbors, not until they moved to their house and it was too late.

So Harry’s needed to learn how to make friends easily – the kind that twirl around you, but aren’t too difficult to leave once the waiting is over and the job is done. And Harry’s always known how to do that. He remembers the girls and the boys that used to wave after his car when they packed their bags and moved on, though, because after time passes, all the people in your life become just another memory you store somewhere safe. But Zayn isn’t one of those small memories. He didn’t twirl around Harry like he was the shiny new toy, he didn’t bend to Harry’s will and he never made Harry feel like he was missing out on something. Zayn has been the hardest to leave behind. But Harry stopped remembering what that was like. Harry put those memories on the shelf for those dark and lonely nights, when he can’t keep his eyes closed for longer than a minute.

“So where are we stopping?” Zayn sits back, leaves his right arm to hang out of the window.

“The first place we can, because I need to take care of your shoulder,” Harry says as he makes a list of everything he’ll need, like gauze, tweezers and a lot more gauze.

“It’s fine,” Zayn waves it off and winces slightly as he does. “I don’t even feel it anymore.”

“That’s not a good thing, you know?”

“Wait, do you rob banks or are you a doctor?”

“Neither, smartass,” Harry smiles. “But I do know a thing or two besides how to rob a bank.”

“Thank god, because we saw how good you are at that.”

Harry scowls. “I know you’re just joking, but that really hurts. I’m good at what I do, believe me?”

“And here I thought you didn’t do it anymore.”  Zayn raises a skeptical eyebrow. “So you’re good at bullet wounds too?”

“Actually,” Harry says and he can feel how his scowl melts into a frown. “Yeah.”

“You’ll need to explain that.”

“As soon as I get that bullet out of your arm,” Harry agrees.

“Wait, wait. You’re gonna do what?”

“What did you think I was gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Zayn raises his voice, sounding doubtful and panicked. “Stick some gauze over it, make me a brace? Anything _but_ perform surgery.”

“Okay.” Harry nods and speeds up to pass a row of cars. “So let’s say I do take you to the hospital. What would you gonna say when they ask you how you got shot?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’d think of something.”

“What though? That you were just cleaning your gun and oops, I shot myself?”

“Okay, okay. I get your point.” Zayn looks out the window and huffs a heavy breath. “Don’t you have a family doctor or something? Or a vet that you know?”

“I’m not the mafia,” Harry laughs. “I just know that the bullet needs to come out.”

“You’re totally convincing me to let you do this.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Harry makes eye contact with Zayn in the rearview mirror. It’s a look that hopefully says Harry wishes he was joking.

“Oh, great. You’re making me feel better too.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry means to apologize for having to do this, because it isn’t his first choice either. This wasn’t a part of his plan, none of it was. But the words come out meaning so much more, like he’s apologizing for getting Zayn in this position, for dragging him to his car, and for being in the bank in the first place. He wants to apologize for everything. Harry clears his throat. “I really am sorry.”

Zayn shrugs, but doesn’t look at Harry. “It wasn’t your fault, so there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Harry wants to scowl and give Zayn his piece of mind, but Zayn smiles as he says it, so Harry does too. It’s the truth, even if the truth is that Harry doubts Zayn is talking about the bank.

“So how are we gonna do this?” Zayn asks, and he doesn’t sound as tense anymore, like he’s come to grips with what has to happen. Or at least the idea of it.

Harry smirks as he starts turning the steering wheel to get them off of the freeway _._ “Have you even been on Route 66?” he asks.

“No. Why?” Zayn sounds confused for only a second, because a couple of quick yards and the sign is there. “Oh. So we’re stopping here?”

“Well,” Harry starts. “A little further ahead. There’s this diner or something.”

“What?”

“I have a first aid kit in the car. I think that should be good enough.”

“What if it isn’t though?” Zayn shakes his head, but Harry knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Any of it.

“It will be.”

Zayn half laughs, half sobs and Harry can’t blame him. “So we’re gonna do this – _this,_ ” he points to his arm. “At a diner. Or something.”

“There,” Harry quickly points to the little red hut down the road. “A café.”

“Okay. So you’re gonna pretend you’re a surgeon in a café. Why am I letting you do this to me again?”

“Because if you don’t, you might die,” Harry says plainly and clearly. Then he clears his throat and comes close to apologizing again, because maybe that was too harsh.

“Harry.” Zayn’s voice isn’t any less clear or loud. So Harry’s glad he can park the car at the side of the café before Zayn goes on. “I trust you with this. I do. Just, don’t fuck it up.”

Harry turns and finds Zayn has come to sit in between the two front seats. His face is right there when Harry looks at Zayn’s pleading eyes that are the color of a late autumn. He doesn’t look worried, but Harry thinks he should. Even if it does make Harry feel better about doing this.

“You trust me?” Is what Harry asks, still so close to Zayn that he can see all his freckles, the one above his eyebrow, the one bellow his lip.

“I have to.” Zayn shrugs and leans back.

“Right,” Harry agrees with a nod. He’s sure he’s blushing. “You should. I think.”

“Let’s do this before I change my mind, please.”

“Yeah, sorry. Just let me find the kit.”

*

The little red hut is called _The Bagdad Café_. It sits right along Route 66, with nothing around it except the desert – nothing but dust and rocks. When they drive by the front and Harry parks at the side, a few feet away from a beat-up trailer, Harry can’t see any locals sitting around the sole table this side of the door. There are no locals to speak of here, only a house here and there, either abandoned or fenced up to the roof.

The café is small, tiny really compared to most diners along the route, but Harry remembers it as being cozy – the kind of family place he spent his afternoons in when he was on the road with his parents. It got its name after the movie that was filmed here in the eighties, Des told him when they first stopped here. The theme of it – the red chairs and classic Route 66 memorabilia fit with the owners – a husband and wife who are the type of couple that freakishly resemble each other. They’re both stout and round, with thick grey hair. And the only distinguishable difference is the bushy mustache on the husband’s upper lip. The place is a little further away from the middle of nowhere, which in hindsight isn’t bad at all, because it means no one’s around to hear Zayn scream.

Harry keeps his first aid kit in the glove box, which is against regulations, but it’s handier than underneath the back seats, where it would take him half an hour to find it. This way he reaches for it easily, finds it pushed to the back of the compartment. As he holds the bright blue box in his hands, he can see how they’re shaking, his fingers tight around the plastic and his flesh white because of his grip.

He can’t focus enough to make them stop, to shake off the heavy ball in his gut that’s pressing against his ribs too, beating with his heart and tangling with his brain. Zayn’s getting ready on the back seats and Harry can’t focus on much else.

There’s a plan – of course there is – Harry can’t do this without one. While he explained everything he has to do out loud, step by step, Zayn kept asking questions, kept wondering if every step was actually necessary, so it took Harry more time than he’d like to explain that yes, each step really is unavoidable. It was like old times though, when Harry used to ramble and Zayn carefully listened, always asking questions and challenging Harry, prompting him to defend his words.

First, Zayn had to move to the right side of the seats, so that Harry can sit on his left side where the wound is. Then Harry found the first aid kit and that’s as far as the easy steps go. This isn’t going to be pleasant – for either of them – and it’s not going to be pretty either. Harry’s highly aware that he’s never done this and he’s told Zayn as much, but he suddenly doesn’t seem to care anymore. It’s like he’s realized there’s no way around this. It’s like he’s let his reservations about Harry performing surgery in the back of his car go. It’s almost like Zayn really does trust Harry with this. Which Harry appreciates, he does, but he’s always found that in situations like this, when you’re nervous and inexperienced and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, it’s still good to keep some apprehension in the back pocket. It’s always good to be a little afraid.

“Go over it again,” Zayn says, as Harry helps to cut the left sleeve of his t-shirt. Zayn raises his good arm, slowly and carefully, so that Harry can take the t-shirt completely off him. “Tell me the steps?”

Harry looks at Zayn and breathes out deeply to ready himself for this. “Okay.” He nods and turns the first aid kit upside down on the seat between them, not looking at Zayn as he talks. “So first thing, I have to sterilize the wound.”

Zayn’s nodding. “How are you gonna do that?”

“I have ethanol somewhere in here.” He spreads the plastic bags and bottles around, seeing where the tweezers are, but searching for the small glass bottle first.

“So really, you’re just gonna clean it.”

“Pretty much, yeah, but it’s gonna sting,” Harry agrees and already regrets setting his mind on doing this. It was supposed to be a good day that somehow ended up with him pouring alcohol a piece of gauze to dab at the dry blood around his bicep. “It’s going to really hurt, but once I can see what is what,” Harry murmurs as he keeps a light touch on Zayn’s chest for balance, still not looking at him. “I’ll asses and we’ll go from there.”

“What if you can’t do anything?”

Harry hums and tries to focus on what he’s doing. He needs to do this right. “Then I’m gonna bandage you up and take you to a hospital.”

“And we don’t want that,” Zayn says quietly as he closes his eyes and relaxes a little. Harry must not be hurting him.

“We don’t want that,” Harry affirms. “I think– I think that’s it.”

“You’re done?” Zayn asks and Harry can hear the underlying panic in his voice. Harry doesn’t know how Zayn will sound when he actually starts, but he knows it won’t be good. Zayn arches his neck to look down, but he probably can’t see it from the way he’s leaning against the seat.

“With cleaning, yeah.” Harry puts down the t-shirt and pauses. He needs a break. “Just give me a second.”

“Oh, take your time,” Zayn says tightly. “It’s not like I have a bullet in my arm. You just chill.”

Harry looks down at the bloody fabric in his hands and at Zayn’s arm that’s tattooed across the shoulder and above his clavicle. Zayn has a lot more ink than he did when they were seventeen. But Harry can’t focus on that right now, not with what he’s about to do to Zayn.

Harry takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ve never done this and I just – I just need a second.”

Zayn looks at him, stares like he’s waiting for Harry to say something else, and Harry can see something crack behind his eyes when he’s done being patient. “Second’s over. Come on.”

But Harry can feel – literally _feel_ – himself shrink, his limbs wrapping around his body, sinking down into the car until he’s just a part of it, just a screw somewhere on the engine. He can’t do this. He’s never done this before and he can’t do it now. There’s no way he can do this.

But, as if he knows what Harry’s thinking, Zayn says, “You can do this. It’s easy, just find the bullet and pull it out.”

Harry takes a deep, shaky breath. “Why do you trust me?”

“I told you,” Zayn sighs impatiently. “I have to.”

“You don’t, though, not really.” Harry’s shaking his head. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop. “You can just go to a hospital and say what happened. That you got you shot.”

Zayn frowns and simply says, “I can’t do that,” without any hesitation. Like it’s the truth, like he really couldn’t do it.

“But you can.” Harry stays firm. “You can.”

“Harry,” Zayn says and Harry can tell he wants to move so that he’d be looking straight at him, but he can’t, not with his injured arm. “Trust me when I say I can’t. You _have_ to do it.”

“I have to?”

“You have to,” Zayn agrees and it’s almost as if a switch flips on somewhere in Harry’s head with those words. He can do this. He has to do this, he doesn’t have a choice and he _can do this_.

He repeats those simple words under his breath as he finds the sizeable tweezers and a piece of gauze the size of his palm. “I can do this,” he says louder, as he put a steady hand on Zayn’s chest again.

“Here,” Harry remembers and gives Zayn his t-shirt back. “Bite this.”

Zayn frowns, but realizes why in the next second. He’s going to scream and yell, and he’s probably going to want to punch Harry afterwards, so Zayn needs to bite down on the fabric to muffle his voice.

Harry takes the tweezers and puts them on Zayn thigh. He leans closer to his arm to see what he has to work with. As he puts pressure on Zayn’s shoulder to be able to see better and Zayn winces and grabs for the seat cushions, for a split second, Harry wishes the bullet would be too deep for him to do anything. Harry wishes he could drive Zayn to the hospital where he’d be sedated, where everything would be a lot more sterile than the back of his old pick up is. Harry wishes Zayn didn’t have to hurt in a way that quickens his pulse, shallows his breath and makes him close his eyes to fight the pain, to let it sink in. And as it happens, Harry hasn’t completely run out of his luck just yet, because there’s no bullet.

There’s the large, too long slash right across Zayn’s arm, raw and bleeding, but it’s just a graze. A near miss and a close call that Harry wants to laugh at all of a sudden.

 “That’s it,” he dumbly states. Harry doesn’t know why he says it, why it puts Zayn visibly at ease to know that Harry can take care of him. It’s something Harry pushes to the back of his thoughts and keeps talking, keeps telling Zayn everything he’s doing. Harry will do anything to make this better for Zayn. “The bullet just grazed your arm, but it did do some damage, so I’m gonna need to clean it some more.

Harry grabs another piece of gauze, a larger once this time to press right onto the wound so he can get all the blood out of the way. He can do this, he can do this, he can do this. “Okay. Ready?”

Zayn’s eyes focus on Harry’s as he nods minutely – there’s tension gathered around the crinkles of his eyes, his worries accumulated in those small little crevices for Harry to see – before he closes them and releases a heavy breath.

Harry thinks he could kiss him now and Zayn wouldn’t mind. They’re so close and Harry has his hands all over Zayn’s nervous skin that Harry wants to kiss Zayn again and see if it’s just like it was back then, when Harry didn’t need an excuse to be able to taste him. Maybe it would be just like it was then, when they were always this close and Harry couldn’t wait to go back to Boulder and to the _Nevada Inn_ and to Zayn. But that was years ago and Zayn probably wouldn’t appreciate Harry leaning in to kiss him right below his left ear on the same spot that Harry always loved for how it made Zayn close his eyes and exhale slowly, like it was sending him into a tectonic state. It was like Harry could made the world stop for Zayn.

Harry exhales himself, putting his weight on his left hand as he presses the gauze right on to the wound, careful to cover it completely. His hand doesn’t shake as he pours more ethanol over the fabric. It pours all over Zayn’s wound and his arm, and it even gets on the seats, but Harry doesn’t care, because he needs to do this right. He’s steady, he’s focused, and he’s ready as he keeps telling himself that this is nothing more than following his plan. It’s nothing – he just needs to do this. He needs to focus on doing this right instead of Zayn’s lips and how wet they are.

 So Harry does it as quickly as he can. He keeps changing the gauze until it’s the least bloody it’s going to get. He can see the flesh now, angry red and more painful than Harry could ever imagine. Zayn keeps wincing and sobbing into the t-shirt. He has his eyes tightly shut as Harry works as fast as he can.

 “Breathe, breathe,” Harry stammers. He doesn’t know what he’s saying as he grabs hold of the small bottle of superglue. “You’re doing great, just breathe.” Harry keeps mumbling. He dabs the glue over the wound, pressing it closed as he drips it onto the wound.

“Just one more second,” Harry says and he knows it’s a lie. It’s what dentists say when they can see you’re in pain, but can’t do anything about it, because they need to keep drilling into your tooth while you wait for that second to finally be over, ticking and ticking until it feels like it’s stretching into forever.

The wound’s half closed when Harry almost stops. Zayn’s muffled sobs and his voice almost penetrating the material of his t-shirt is tearing at Harry’s ears, cracking his bones and stabbing at his chest. It sounds excruciating to the point where Harry doesn’t know how Zayn hasn’t passed out yet. Zayn’s screaming like Harry would imagine someone would if their arm was being slowly torn off of their body, or if someone would undergo heart surgery without anesthesia, feeling how the scalpel delicately slices through your skin. Harry almost stops, but he doesn’t.

“It’s over, it’s over,” Harry rants as he manages to close it completely. “It’s over. You can breathe.” But Harry doesn’t know who he’s saying it to by this point – Zayn or himself.

Zayn spits the t-shirt out in the next second and folds in half. “Mother of– Fuck.”

Zayn’s shaking, is the first thing Harry sees. His hands are still gripping at the seat’s leather and hi knuckles have gone completely white. Harry dumps the gauze and the glue into the first aid box and moves closer to Zayn, starts rubbing his back, up and down, in hopes it makes him feel better – or at least breathe easier if nothing else.

Harry leans back against the seat as he feels Zayn’s back rise and fall in quick jolts underneath his palm. He’s trying to get his breath back and Harry can understand it, but, as much as it’s over, it’s not actually over.

So, Harry gives Zayn another minute before he awkwardly clears his throat. “I need to bandage you up.”

Zayn doesn’t move immediately – not that Harry expected him to be happy about it. He can’t imagine how Zayn must be feeling, how his whole body is probably on fire, even if the bullet wasn’t actually in his arm. Harry didn’t think he would ever end up hurting someone so much.

“I’m sorry.” Harry says it again, because he thinks Zayn wants to hear it. Harry’s not as naïve as to think it’ll make anything better and it doesn’t make him feel any less like shit either, but it ends up being the only thing he _can_ say right now, as Zayn slowly sits back up and Harry’s hand falls from his back.

“Yeah, I know,” Zayn breathes out. He looks exhausted more than he does in pain, like he hasn’t slept in days or weeks, like he’s been through a war and back, like he’s aged twenty years in the span of ten seconds. “What did you even do?”

“I closed your wound.”

Zayn looks down at it. It looks awful, but it’s all swollen and red, and Harry’s sure it’ll get better soon. “With what?” Zayn asks as he frowns deeply.

“Superglue.”

“What?!”

Harry raises his arms when Zayn jumps away from him, clearly a bit shocked. “Relax, it’s a trick Des taught me.”

“Are you insane?” Zayn doesn’t seem to hear him though, because he looks like Harry at least shot him again. “You don’t just use superglue like that!”

“It’s safe.”

“And how would you know?”

“Look,” Harry says as he raises a foot and rolls his pant up a little, exposing a nasty scar. “I cut my foot on an urchin.”

Zayn inspects the how completely healed scar. It’s nothing more than a shiny white line of wild flesh. But it serves as a good distraction for Zayn as he hums and keeps his eyes on Harry’s ankle. “And that’s super-glued?”

“Yeah. It works like a charm.”

“Okay,” Zayn says on an exhale and he sounds doubtful, but even if Harry doesn’t explicitly tell him, Zayn knows there’s really not much he can do about it now.

“Can I?” Harry asks quietly with a clean piece of gauze in his hands, giving Zayn the option to wait a couple more minutes if he needs them. But instead of answering, Zayn turns his head so that he’s looking at Harry and smiles.

It’s small and barely there, but Harry’s sure the corners of Zayn’s lips are turning upwards in a crooked smile as he half lays there and slowly blinks at Harry. In that moment, Zayn looks like nothing had happened and he’s just resting. He looks peaceful, like he did when he was hanging out of the window to breathe, and Harry can’t help but smile back. Zayn looks like he did when Harry would drive them to the middle of the desert or to the lake, just to watch as the water swirled around state lines.

Harry doesn’t say anything as he cleans the wound again. Zayn was lucky that the bullet missed all of his tattoos. He is lucky it didn’t hit any major arteries or got stuck in a bone. The bullet just grazed his skin. Zayn is incredibly lucky.

Harry bandages the wound and checks if it’s nice and tight round Zayn’s arm to make sure it doesn’t start to bleed. He hopes it hurts less now, but Harry knows it doesn’t. There’s not much else but time that can heal Zayn’s wound.

“I’m fine,” Zayn says when Harry suggests fashioning a brace out of some gauze. “I’ll just be careful to not move my arm too much.”

“Zayn.” Harry doesn’t agree. Not at all. “Just let me do it, please.”

Zayn scowls again and Harry doesn’t really care if he ends up letting him do it or not. That scowl and the fact Zayn’s moving around the seat to help Harry clean up means he’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.

“Fine,” Harry scowls back at him and smirks. “Be in pain, see if I care.”

Zayn chuckles and Harry shakes his head.

It’s like old times, when Harry drove them back to the Inn and they stumbled up to their room almost naked, socks and jeans in their hands, laughter heavy on their tongues and pressed so close together you wouldn’t be able to tell who was who. It’s almost like that now, except Harry’s fully clothed, they’re standing at the side of the car and Zayn is struggling to pull on the clean t-shirt Harry have him. Harry needs to consciously remind himself that this isn’t then, that they’re not friends anymore – that they’re not best friends – that they’re barely acquaintances at best. There’s nothing left between them, nothing that Harry could twist his fingers in and pull on.

*

The inside of the café is exactly as Harry remembers it. The tables are the same, not a single chair is missing and the menus are still a bit lacking. Everything is red: red leather cushions that stick to your skin like duct tape, red shiny counters and red checkered table cloths, the color of wild cherries. It’s hard to not compare this shade  to the crimson splattered on the back seats of his pickup. Or to the livelier tinge on Zayn’s skin, on his t-shirt. It’s the same color as Harry’s hands were before he dashed to the bathroom to watch the color flow down the drain. After he came back, he saw Zayn took over the only booth in the place. It’s the one in the right corner right next to the window, but the view’s nothing more than miles of dry dust. Zayn’s waiting to get his turn at the sink in the bathroom.

When the woman makes her way to their booth, greeting Harry with a smiley “What’ll you have, son?”, he orders himself a cup of coffee, while Zayn says he’ll have the special, before he stands up and walks away.

This is one of the dreams they shared when they were thirteen and still naïve enough to think it was them against the world – when it was just them in the middle of the desert, but never more than a fifteen minute drive away from both their parents. They always wanted to drive down Route 66 with the windows rolled down and Lynyrd Skynyrd on repeat, stopping off at small, family-owned diners and cafés, until they’d reach paradise – or at least California. That was the dream, their dream, when Harry was thirteen and had done it all with his parents already – the music, the roads, the freedom – countless times, over and over, again and again. For Harry and Zayn it wasn’t about the drive or the music or the cities. It was about going to paradise, about being together for months on end, for years and years even. It really was about them against the world.

Zayn is sitting opposite Harry. They don’t say much when Zayn gets back, but it’s good like this, to not have to pretend small-talk is something either was ever good at. Harry’s always had the tendency to give everything away in the first second of meeting someone knew – he’s aware of it, actually more than others are – but it’s never substantial things. Harry doesn’t reach far with his words, because new people, the ones that are more interested in his smile and dimples than anything else, eat the shallow and vapid pieces he gives away like free candy. Harry knows how to twirl someone around his finger – or be twirled – until he had to move on and leave. It’s a lesson neither Anne nor Des knew they taught Harry.

But Zayn never seemed to know how to use his small pieces like Harry did. People in Boulder always said that Harry was flirt and Zayn was the quiet, reserved kid that tagged along every summer. And Harry almost smiles as he remembers how wrong they always were – the graffiti incident being just one example. Some people don’t need words to be loud.

The food gets there a minute after Zayn does, along with Harry’s cup of plain black coffee.

Harry can’t say anything. He can barely think straight with what’s happened – all of it, any of it: the bank exploding with the too familiar boom of a firing gun or the look on Mitch’s face as he trembled on the floor. Tracy and now Zayn. How Zayn sobbed into the torn t-shirt and Harry trying to uselessly soothe him. It’s too much to process for Harry, but here Zayn is, his mouth watering at the sight of the lasagna that’s being placed right in front of him by Mary – the too happy waitress in this place.

Harry grabs a sugar packet from the little basket on the table and directs all of his thoughts to it. He’s never liked sugar in his coffee. Something so real, so sobering as caffeine and its bitter taste shouldn’t be soured by something so plain and sweet as sugar.

Harry’s life has an order, a sequence, a purpose – a good plan. Since the moment he was born, his parents started teaching and bestowing him with lesson after lesson, just so that they could be certain Harry would have a purpose. He lives with a plan. Harry’s life was a plan from when he first started going along to the jobs, to when he started driving and then when he refused to talk to his parents for a month. There’s always a plan, but now Harry feels like his whole life has lost its trajectory. As if when this day will be over, his other life will begin. The sloppy one, the random, spontaneous one that Harry wouldn’t even know what to do with.

He didn’t want a plan for letting go, because it seemed counterproductive, but the more he thinks about it, the more this mess seems less like a speed bump along the way and more like an apple on top of his head waiting for an arrow to split it in half.

 “What are you thinking about?” Zayn asks, right before he stuffs his face with a forkful of too hot lasagna. He takes a deep breath, clearly getting his tongue burned, and Harry needs to stifle a laugh as Zayn chugs down half of his water in one big gulp.

“Hmm?”

“It looks like it’s painful,” Zayn goes on, wheezing a little and Harry thinks he might be joking. “Whatever you’re thinking about.”

“You don’t want to know,” is what Harry answers with, because really, Zayn doesn’t care about his worries anymore.

Zayn eyes him seriously for a minute, before his face relaxes and he starts chewing again. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

For everything they’ve been through, for the years they’ve known each other and for however many kisses they’ve shared in the dark with their faces pressed close together, Harry can’t say he knows Zayn. He could’ve said it loud and clear three, four, ten years ago, but today, he’d lower his head and mumble something incomprehensible for fear of being found out. Harry knew Zayn back then, but now, he doesn’t know this Zayn at all.

“I’m thinking about what we’re gonna do for a month.”

“Don’t you have a plan?” Zayn asks. It makes Harry duck his head and smile, because maybe he doesn’t know Zayn anymore, but Zayn still knows everything there is to know about Harry.

“Not really.”

Zayn nods, once. “Okay.” It’s this affirmative and strong movement of his head that he’s always had when he set his mind on something. Then the set expression on his face turns to a slight frown, and Harry swears he can see how Zayn’s brain starts to work. It makes Zayn look just like Harry remembers him.

“Do you want to just stay in a motel for a month?”

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs. “I usually did.”

“Well, I am technically on a vacation.”

“I am too, actually?”

Zayn snorts and plops another piece of pasta in his mouth. “You didn’t plan this, did you?”

Harry wants to bark out a laugh, but he takes a sip of his coffee instead. “What were you planning on doing during your holiday?”

“Stuff.” Zayn shrugs. And that’s just like him too, to avoid any direct questions that would make anyone get too close to him. Harry never got it before, but he gets it now..

“What kind of stuff?” He still pushes, because it’s what he always did and without a fault, it made Zayn tell him – even if did take a lot of poking and prodding from Harry.

Zayn shrugs again and Harry thinks his eyes glow for a second before he says, “Everything.”

Harry blinks. For a non-specific answer, Zayn sure sounds more determined about it than Harry’s ever seen him. There was a time that Harry can barely remember now, when he first met Zayn. Harry was five and Anne decided that this little inn in a city they’ve never been to looked solid enough to stay in for a couple of weeks. When Harry was little, they tended to stay in one place for a longer period of time, because it wasn’t good to move a child around so often, not when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, because children need structure. Despite being nomadic in their ways, a home was something they all wanted. So they got themselves a room at the Nevada Inn, which was run by a lively family; wife, husband and at that time, three kids. There was Doniya, who liked to think she was the boss – not that that’s changed probably. There was Waliyha, who was too young for Harry to care much about her and then there was Zayn – a year older than Harry and constantly clutching his mom’s leg, like she’d float away if he let go. Yaser, Zayn’s dad and soon to be Des’s decade old friend, always encouraged his son to go play with Harry, who just kept smiling and waving at Zayn, trying to show the boy he just wanted to explore the inn. But Zayn just shook his head and hid behind Trisha as she chatted with Anne. It took Harry a solid week before he managed to lure Zayn from behind Trisha’s legs.

Zayn’s always been like that, ever since Harry first convinced him to step in front of Trisha and take the toy car he was offering – slow to trust and as doubtful about life as anyone Harry’s ever met. But that’s who Zayn is, questioning and unsure about himself as well as everyone else he meets. He’s had that occasional rare determined moment, like when he huffed out a deep breath before he pressed his lips against Harry’s, almost angry with himself that Harry beat his to the punch. Or when the kids at school were picking on Safaa and Zayn stomped over there to show them a piece of his mind – Harry trailing after him, which was coincidentally also his first and only time being so close to a school’s playground.

So for Zayn to sound so sure, so wanting to do _everything_ … It means something. It has to.

“Everything?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, you know. Everything you’ve ever wanted to do, but didn’t for some reason.”

“So you want to rob the biggest bank in the world too?” Harry chuckles.

“Ha.” The sharp tone of Zayn’s voice makes Harry blush in embarrassment. “No. I mean like driving down _Route 66._ ”

“Well, you’ve done that now.”

“Riding in the backseats might be comfortable, but I mean actually drive.”

“You can if you want to.”

And then Zayn blushes. He ducks his head in the way that makes Harry smile, because with the changes he’s been cataloguing throughout their time together, this isn’t one of them. Zayn is so easily embarrassed, so afraid to not be taken seriously and Harry’s always appreciated the delicate shade of pink flushing over his cheekbones.

“You still haven’t gotten your license, have you?”

Zayn bites his lip, but he doesn’t actually look embarrassed, not quite. “I have a car,” Zayn counters and shrugs minutely, still unsure.

“Okay,” Harry drags. “And why do you have a car?”

“Ha ha.” It sounds dry, but Harry’ll take it. “Grandpa left me his car.”

Harry’s eyes shine. “Are you talking about Walter’s _Mustang_?”

“We could go pick it up? Drive around in that until we go back?”

Harry nods slowly, careful to not look too excited. “We could, yeah,” he says, as he thinks of how their route doesn’t have to change by much if the car’s still in that old and dusty garage.

“I don’t know why he gave me the car. He knew I didn’t want to drive.” Zayn puts his fork down on the plate and wipes his mouth with the napkin, leaning back. And Harry can see how he genuinely wonders why he would ever be given a car.

“Maybe because he wanted you to finally learn how to drive?” Harry offers an almost polite smile and hopes it doesn’t get turned down. But Zayn shrugs again and offers one back, albeit a shyer version of it.

“Maybe.”

“Okay,” Harry claps his hands together. “As long as I don’t have to break into anything, I’m down.”

“Yeah? You’re down?” Zayn raises an eyebrow. It doesn’t sit well with Harry.

“Sure. It’s not like we have anything better to do.”

“Or maybe you just want to drive my _Mustang_.”

Harry chuckles, his shoulders shaking with it. “Maybe.”

*

Harry wants to pull his hair out before they even start. He turned the car around and drove right on the road since traffic isn’t actually a thing on this stretch of the road. He put the car in park and stepped out, so that Zayn could sit in the driver’s seat.

They’ve been here before – Zayn looking like he’s hanging over the ocean by a thread and Harry being the one hoisting him up, telling him to just jump in the water and drown. Giving Zayn driving lessons didn’t work before and Harry would’ve been incredibly surprised if it did this time. But he isn’t surprised, he’s just pretty sure that soon he won’t have any hair left on his head.

Zayn doesn’t do well with instructions – he really just doesn’t _do_ instructions period. It’s like he has a genuine disdain for someone telling him what to do, like he thinks he’s conforming to someone else’s ideals. This is more along the lines of, ‘Back up your seat a little,’ or, ‘Put the car into drive,’ but Zayn doesn’t seem to register the difference, because as soon as Harry tries, he’s listening to a stream of curse words he didn’t even know existed.

Harry’s pickup is an automatic and it’s old, but it handles beautifully, and it’s a great car. Zayn, however, doesn’t seem to think so.

“Oh, fucking – what the hell is wrong with your car?” Zayn punches the steering wheel and Harry tries not to punch him back.

“Don’t hurt my car,” he winces, keeping his voice in a calm shout, while his hands stay in his hair.

“It doesn’t work!” Zayn’s frustrated with the car when it’s clearly not the poor machine’s fault that he practically stomps on the gas every single time, before he floors the break, afraid they’ll rocket down the road.

Harry tried telling him to be gentle and to keep his foot light, but Zayn doesn’t listen to instructions. He doesn’t listen to Harry – or the struggling engine – so they’re going down the road foot by painful foot, a jump of the car every few seconds.

“Okay, you know what?” Harry grinds his teeth and jumps out of the car. He has a sudden desire to scream at the sky, but he just stomps around the hood to tear open Zayn’s door. “Get out. You’re killing my car.”

“It’s dead already!” Zayn doesn’t stop yelling. “It’s a turd of a car and I hate it.”

“If you’d done as I told you,” Harry starts to say calmly, trying his best to reason with Zayn, but then the look he gets in return, the raised eyebrow with a passive-aggressive lick of Zayn’s lips, makes his voice go louder by itself. “Maybe you’d have been able to fucking drive like a normal person!”

“Well excuse me for not listening to your _shit_ instructions!” Zayn throws his hands in the air and winces as he does, going to grab at his arm before he climbs back into the passenger’s seat.

“I also told you to put on a brace,” Harry rants as he buckles himself in. “But of course you didn’t listen to me. Why would you?”

“You’re right. Why would I listen to you?”

“Because I _am_ right.” He turns the key and starts driving, motioning wildly with his hands to showcase how they’re moving, his eyes jumping from the road to Zayn’s bitter face. “See, I _can_ actually drive.”

There’s a pause Harry can feel stretching over his skin, something akin to dread, like a snake twisting around his neck as Zayn licks over his lips again, his face blank. “Congratulations, Harry,” Zayn says with a measured voice, turning his head to look Harry straight in his eyes. “You are right.”

Harry’s never felt more wrong.

*

There was a time when Harry and Zayn didn’t have to talk. The silence around them wasn’t suffocating, it didn’t stifle them and it didn’t cut off their air supply. When Harry’s lying alone in his bed and his breathing is evening out with the draft of air pulling through his window, he can feel a pair of hands, thin but strong, tracing along his clavicle, in the hollow of his throat, up to his ear and down to his shoulder. The hands are gentle, a whisper of a soft touch that’s pleasant for how it’s invasive. But then with every breath he takes, he gives them more and more power, until the hands are around his neck, thumbs at his pulse point and it’s choking the air out of his lungs. He can breathe, Harry can feel how his lungs expand and his chest rises and falls to the _tick tick_ of the clock from the hallway, but it doesn’t help. It’s useless, it’s pointless to breathe. Harry wants the hands to be real, to be more than a phantom feeling, because sometimes not being able to breathe can feel like all you are is air. Like you’re a gush of wind wrapping around itself, dancing with the leaves and kissing the tips of tree branches. Playing hide and seek with the rain.

Harry could see the worried glances Anne gave Harry when he and Zayn were spread out next to each other on the hot pavement of the parking lot, lying in front of the Inn with their eyes closed and their pinkies touching. Trisha smiled, but Anne frowned. She sat Harry down and asked if anything was wrong in that concerned mother’s voice Harry presumes you only get once you give birth. Harry didn’t understand then, when he was eleven years old, so he smiled, shook his head and said ‘Of course not, mom.’

He knows now that his answer probably didn’t appease Anne at all, but back then, he didn’t want to tell her how it was their time-out and something he came up with. When Harry was eleven and Zayn was twelve, they used to play catch around the Inn and sneak into unoccupied rooms to play there, because they didn’t realize that jumping on the clean beds was anything but fun. They played, but Zayn started frowning, going quieter with each game, until Harry would drag him to the parking lot where they would lie down next to each other and close their eyes – pinkies tangled so they knew the other was still there. Harry didn’t know that was what he should’ve said to Anne. Harry didn’t know he should have told Anne that he knew him and Zayn were different, that Zayn needed the quiet as much as Harry needed to run around wild and free.

Now, Harry wants to choke Zayn himself. He isn’t surprised that they fought or that Zayn has his arms crossed over his chest and his head turned to the side – away from Harry – because it’s their _thing_ : bickering until Harry ends up feeling like the bad guy. What Harry _is_ surprised about is that it took them this long to get into a fight, since more often than not all it would take was one word. One of them said one single wrong thing and the yelling started, their own personal screaming match with no referee until one of them – Harry – raised their hands in defeat.

Harry keeps looking over at the side of Zayn’s stoic face, trying to catch his eye. He can’t stop himself, because for the first time, he doesn’t know what to say. They were best friends then, when they spent more days apart than together. Harry knew Zayn better than the back of his hand – knew how to make him smile, how to piss him off and how to make him blush all in a matter of that single word. Harry could make Zayn’s toes curl with a twist of his finger and he was proud of that, of _knowing_ Zayn like that. Having that kind of clearance to a person, to the inside and the out of them is a privilege, but when that person is Zayn, the boy that clung to his mother’s leg like it was a safe house, then it’s the highest achievement Harry could have ever asked for.

Harry’s aware that he’s lost that – that he basically gave it away for nothing more than spare change if even that. He handed the privilege back to Zayn and now he doesn’t know what to say to make Zayn look at him. Harry wouldn’t know where to start and it makes something sour twist in his gut.

“How’s your arm?” Harry tries. He knows it’s not going to make Zayn smile and it doesn’t make him turn his head either, but it does make him move. Zayn also turns his body away from Harry. It’s not a good start, but it’s something.

Harry rolls down both their windows and hopes it does something. The air rushes into the car with a whoosh, but it’s pleasant against the heat of the sun above them. It makes Harry’s head buzz a little before it clears, somewhat, and lets him think of what to say next.

It wasn’t always words that got Zayn back on his side. Harry could kiss him or get Zayn to lie on his back, but he could still feel the disdain targeted at him with a precise aim, like a laser beam directed to the middle of his forehead that’s ready to shoot a bullet straight through his head. With words – sometimes one, sometimes whole sentences or paragraphs neatly strung together and kisses instead of periods and commas – Harry could turn Zayn’s lips upward and make him huff a deep breath, which was a clear sign of giving up the front of being offended.

Once, Harry tried for days, until he came up to Zayn and whispered a quiet, “I love you,” against the back of Zayn’s neck. He had Zayn glued to his lips in the next second, before the words were completely out of his mouth. And Harry going to have to do this with words too, because he can’t kiss Zayn. He can’t make him arch his back in surrender, so he’s going to have to talk and hope that it works before the month is over.

“We can get the car tomorrow.” Harry realized he doesn’t know what the right thing to say here is anymore, but he can try everything and wait until something works. “My back is starting to act up and your arm must be hurting, right?”

Harry waits what he thinks is enough time for Zayn to reply if he wanted to, before he continues talking. “So, I thought we could find a place to stay and rest. We could stay at _The Six_ in the next town if they have a room available. I stayed there a couple of times, it’s nice. The rooms are ugly and kind of smell of bleach, but there’s a pool. I think I might go for a swim later.”

Harry takes a breath and leans his elbow against the edge of the window so it’s peeking out of the car. He thinks if this doesn’t work, he’s going to have to live in radio silence for thirty days. That thought alone is enough to make Harry clear his throat and go on, looking at the road. “Yeah, I’m gonna go for a swim. They have big showers, though, so you can properly clean your arm and stuff. Not that you’re dirty,” Harry corrects himself. “I think you’re a clean person, actually. Smell nice, too. You still use that cologne? The one with that blue bottle that Yaser got you? I always liked that one,” Harry muses. “But it’s not like you don’t– ”

“Oh, shut up,” Zayn groans and turns to shoot Harry an exasperated look. “Please, just stop talking.”

Usually, Harry would be highly offended. Now though, he just smiles. Zayn still has that look on his face, the one that begs and orders at the same time, but Harry grins at him long enough to see it melt away a little, until his expression is the usual scowl.

“Ready to forgive me?” Harry jokes and immediately wants to smack a hand over his mouth. It’s definitely not the right thing to say and he has an apology ready on the tip of his tongue when Zayn laughs, throwing his head back.

“You really shouldn’t be allowed to talk,” Zayn wheezes as he continues to laugh in Harry’s face. It feels nice.

“That’s not a very polite thing to say, you know?” Harry frowns.

“Do you even hear yourself when you talk? Because sometimes I really don’t think you do.”

“Oh come on, I’m not _that_ bad.”

Zayn snorts. “You’re worse.”

“Well, you’re ugly.” Harry huffs and snorts himself.

Zayn grabs at his chest. “Damn. That one _really_ hurts.”

“I’m so bad at this,” Harry laughs. Momentarily, he’s reminded of how they didn’t just bicker and fight back then, when their lives were simpler and neither have seen or felt a bullet. It was easy, talking to Zayn always has been, even if Zayn’s never been much of a conversationalist.

 “Told you,” Zayn winks at him and then falls back into his seat. A much more pleasant silence float around them and makes Harry’s breath come easier. Slow and steady.

*

When they get to _Motel 6_ it’s easy too. Zayn says he’ll smoke a cigarette while Harry finds them a room, but that only leaves Harry standing there with a dumb look on his face.

“You smoke?”

“Oh,” Zayn looks down at his pack, holding a bright green lighter in his other hand. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Since when?” Harry hopes he doesn’t sound like an inquisitive mother, but he can’t help it.

Zayn shrugs. “For a couple of months. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal when you’re killing yourself with each one of those… _things_.” Harry points a finger and he actually does feel like Zayn’s mother in that moment. “Does Trisha know about this?”

“Harry, they’re just cigarettes.” Zayn sounds so unfazed as he lights one and puffs out the smoke, that Harry almost rips it out of his mouth and sufficiently stomps on it.

But Harry just frowns. “I don’t like it.” They’re standing next to the car and Harry doesn’t know what they look like to outsiders. Zayn’s so nonchalant with his bright flaming death wish between his lips and Harry’s arms crossed and his face in an accusatory glare. He guesses they look like strangers. Or maybe like they're fighting. Again. “It makes you look different.”

“You mean cool?”

Harry knows Zayn’s joking, but this isn’t the time or the place. “Is that why you smoke? To look _cool_?”

Zayn raises his eyebrow. “Who do I have to impress?”

“I don’t know? Your friends?” Harry shrugs his shoulders.

“I just like it, okay?” Zayn’s words are covered with a cloud of thick smoke, lips pursing to let the smoke slip out in a thin stream that swirls above his head. He leans against the car and bends his knee. Harry wants to momentarily take back his words, because Zayn _does_ look cool. With Harry’s t-shirt and his ripped jeans, Zayn looks almost _too_ cool – like anyone would fight to get him in their clique.

“Whatever you say.” Harry turns and walks to the front of the motel, searching for the reception and stubbornly not trying to think if Zayn tastes of smoke now.

It’s been a long day, not even considering the fact that Zayn is now with him, so Harry doesn’t exactly pay attention when he gets to the reception and asks for a room. He stands there and listens to the part about getting out before noon or they’re getting charged for an additional day, but everything else flies right over his head. It’s like that thing that parents complain to their kids about, when their words go in one ear and right out the other.

While the guy with the thickest glasses Harry’s ever seen explains their rules with the kind of monotonous tone that could lull anyone into hibernation, Harry reaches an epiphany of sorts. It’s nothing major, nothing he hasn’t realized before, but it feels more like a resolution than anything else. Maybe today could be his New Year’s and the countdown is the guy naming off rule after rule that Harry can recite himself after so many motel nights he’s had.

Harry makes a rule for himself right then and there. It’s a new list with only one item on it: let it go. It really isn’t anything new, but it feels like it is now as he waits for to hear the final rule. What happened happened and there’s no changing it now. He can’t go back to the bank to fix things and he can’t press rewind and wait until he’s at the Chess Park to restart the day and hope for a better outcome. There is no second chance there. That’s done.

Harry had an opportunity to start fresh, he blew it and now Harry can only try again. For real this tim. It’s as simple as it’s obvious. Harry could worry himself sick or he could maybe find a way to be friends with Zayn again. And in the process, he could try to leave his parents out of his thoughts for a change.

The guy – it says _Greg_ on the nametag that’s pinned crookedly to his oversized shirt –  coughs in the way that lets Harry know he’s zoned out. Thankfully, Greg doesn’t go over what he’s just said again and instead offers Harry the room key, with a bored, “Enjoy your stay.”

Harry nods his thanks and turns around. He finds Zayn still smoking, which must mean it’s at least his second if not third cigarette, and nods once at him to say _let’s go_.

They got room 501 that’s on the second floor, up the rusty metal stairs that make too much noise for someone to quietly sneak in at night, which is both a good and a bad thing. Harry walks down to the end of the outside hallway, following the 4-0-1, 4-0-2 and 4-0-3 rooms until he gets to their door with Zayn walking close behind him.

What Harry expects to see is a small room with vomit colored sheets and a bathroom with a decent sized shower. He’s stayed in _Motel 6’_ s all over Nevada with his parents before. They have nice enough employees and they have decent prices. But what Harry expects and what he actually sees are two very different things.

The room is furnished with vomit color furniture, sure, but the sheets are a mix of a bright yellow and navy blue. The bed is pushed against the left wall, so that there’s some space to walk around the room if one’s in the need of a good pace. They have a window right next to the door, with thick blue curtains that match the sheets, but the opposite wall is empty – not even a badly painted piece of art hanging anywhere in the room. The bathroom’s placed opposite the bed and the place actually wouldn’t be that bad for a motel room, if there wasn’t only one lone king-sized bed.

When Zayn stops behind Harry, probably to ask why he doesn’t go in, Harry doesn’t wait to hear what he has to say.

“I’m gonna go change our room.” Harry already tries to squeeze his way past Zayn to go back to the dull receptionist, when he’s stopped by Zayn not moving out of the way.

“Don’t be stupid,” Zayn says, but Harry can see how his face isn’t as composed as it usually is when he sees the bed too. “We can share.”

“Or, I can sleep on the floor.” Harry nods determinately.

“And break your back completely?”

“Well, you should get the bed, getting shot and all.”

Zayn grins. “Nice sentiment. But we can share, it’s not like we haven’t before.”

Zayn says it like he doesn’t want to be the only one with his face heating up and Harry blushes too, of course he does, with flashes of what Zayn’s referring to moving in front of his eyes as he turns yet again and finally walks into the room. It’s not fair, really, for Zayn to be so cool with it, like he always is, when Harry knows that Zayn would prefer to stretch on his own bed. When Harry knows that Zayn’s not cool with it at all.

“I’m gonna shower, okay?” Zayn says, as he drops Harry’s duffel bags on the bed. He scratches at the back of his neck, standing there awkwardly and seemingly waiting for something.

“What?”

“Could you lend me some clothes?”

“Oh.” Harry stops with his hands midway pulling the curtain to cover the window. “Yeah, sure.” He walks to the bed and opens the bags, scrambling through one to find the clothes he’s had in mind since he knew Zayn would have to change into something clean. “Here.”

He doesn’t really give Zayn a choice, but he thinks that blank jeans, a black t-shirt and black boxers don’t miss the mark. And they don’t, because Zayn smiles in thanks before he toes out of his boots at the foot of the bed.

“Um… I’ll be quick.”

“Take your time,” Harry says as a smile slowly spreads on his face. He knows that Zayn could stay in the shower for hours if he’s allowed. “No rush.”

“Thanks.”

There’s not much to do and Harry’s too tired to do any of the things he should or at least that he usually does, like check the town out or make the bed the way he likes, with two pillows to lay his head on and all the covers on his side, because he gets cold when he sleeps. He’d also change the order, the thin blanket underneath the heavy duvet, because that’s what Anne always did. But Harry just sits on the bed and waits for the tail tell sign of the water shutting off that means Zayn’s done.

He doesn’t wait long after that and when Zayn steps out with his jeans in hand and Harry’s boxers and t-shirt on, Harry can’t escape to the bathroom quick enough. He doesn’t stand there with the water pouring over his head and shoulders, warming up his back to relax his muscles for too long. Harry’s too tired to even attempt to wash his hair, so he only towel dries the ends quickly to not wet the pillow cases later.

It’s when he gets out of the bathroom, dressed in just his boxers because that’s how he sleep no matter who’s in the bed next to him, that he goes off autopilot and stops. Zayn’s lying on his side, turned away from Harry’s half of the bed with Harry’s bedside lamp dimly lighting the room. But the thing that makes Harry clutch his dirty clothes closer to his chest is the bed, because it’s made just like it should be, with two pillows and the blanket underneath the duvet, waiting for Harry to collapse on top of it all.

Lying on his back, Harry can’t help but smile, because Zayn remembers too. A lot has changed – Harry’s hair’s longer and Zayn has so many tattoos that Harry wants to count them – but for everything that’s new, there’s also something that hasn’t changed, that managed to still be there after so many years have passed. Harry turns on his side, so that they’re both facing away from each other and closes his eyes, content and dead-tired. He falls asleep before he knows it.

*

Harry wakes up in one of three distinct ways. Sometimes, it’s with a gasp that guarantees he’ll be off center for at least a couple of days afterwards. He jolts awake and almost jumps out of bed feeling terrified and out of breath, his forehead covered in sweat. There’s no nightmare that leads to it, nothing that indicates he’s going to wake up trembling and clawing at his own skin, or shivering as if he’s cold. It doesn’t happen so often that Harry would want to get to the bottom of it, but it has made him miss his mom’s fingers running through his hair in an attempt to calm him down.

The second only happens when he has a reason to wake up in the morning and Harry has his alarm is set, but he knows he isn’t going to need it. It’s annoying as much as it’s useful. It’s a switch that’s flipped and his eyes open, just like that – no deep breathing or cold sweat, his heart barely beating in his chest. It’s with a _pop_ that he’s awakened and it only ever happens on Fridays.

And then there’s now. His body is slowly coming to, his brain waking up each neuron at a time. It’s languid, as he’s lured out of his dreams and into awareness. It’s slow, like a process, like Harry’s body is waiting for him to realize what’s happening, but without any rush. Harry’s given the space and time to blink his head awake.

He pushes his face into the pillow and mewls as he stretches his legs and flexes his fingers. The sheets don’t smell so much of bleach anymore as the soap the motel provides in the bathrooms – _summer breeze_ it said on the small bottle – and something distinct that Harry never thought he’d get to breathe in again.

Harry stops paying attention to the smell that lingers right under his nose as soon as he feels something on his stomach moving, something that feels like long fingers are grazing over his exposed skin. It’s nothing, a single moment that lasts no more than five seconds, but it makes Harry’s limbs melt right into the sheets. He can feel it all – Zayn’s hand on his stomach, his face at the nape of Harry’s neck and how his lips are pressed against his skin; Zayn’s feet searching for the warmth of Harry’s.

Harry enjoys it, because he can. Because no one can see him and Zayn’s still asleep, so he doesn’t care if Harry shifts a little closer to him.

A gravitational pull is how Harry justifies it to himself. Drifting to each other even in their sleep is how he would explain it to anyone who would ask, and it’s not like he wanted this would be the words he’d use to excuse himself to Zayn if he did wake up now. But Harry knows he won’t. And as many theories as to why they ended up cuddled together that Harry can think of, he knows that Zayn rolling closer to warmth is the only one that’s true.

They used to fight about this, because Zayn refuses to wear more than boxers and a t-shirt to bed, when he knows how cold he gets. Harry’s had to wrap his body around Zayn’s more than once, when he couldn’t stop shivering under the duvet. It’s like Zayn needs human warmth and the feel of skin on skin for his heart to start circulating blood that heats up his body, because sheets and comforters aren’t enough.

Anne, with all her mother’s wisdom, told Harry when he was little that if he sleeps with his legs stretched out and straight, his feet won’t run cold, because blood can’t get down to your toes if your knees are bent. And so Harry told Zayn the same exact thing, but Zayn still refused to move from his fetal position with his arms wrapped around his calves as his muscles trembled and contracted against the cold. So Harry never could refuse Zayn when he wrapped his arms around Harry instead. Not that Harry ever minded.

It’s early, just a minute or so till eight in the morning when Harry flicks his eyes towards the clock on the nightstand, but the last thing Harry wants to do now is move. It just feels so good to have someone else there, so close. Harry hasn’t been this comfortable in years.

The steady beat of someone else’s heart pressed up against your spine is reassuring. It’s warm and it’s soft, like a feather light touch of a finger right against the deepest most secret part of you. It’s intimate and it’s dangerous, because it makes you _feel_ and it makes you crave for more – for twisted legs and intertwined fingers, for lips and moans. Sometimes, feeling a soft breath against the back of your neck is painful.

And Harry knows Zayn. Some things may have changed, but others are solidly carved into stone. Zayn would have a disheartening reaction if we woke up to his strong arms holding onto Harry’s waist – and it’s not something Harry wants to put himself through. He doesn’t want to see Zayn blush or hear him apologize. This shouldn’t be one of the things that changed. Things like this – parts of your personally, the trades of your character and the deepest of ids – they don’t change just because three years pass.

So Harry makes himself slip out from under Zayn’s arms. It’s to spare both their feelings; Harry’s from getting crushed and Zayn’s from having to crush Harry’s. He doesn’t have to be particularly gentle or slow since Zayn still sleeps like a log, so just to be sure, Harry takes his time. And if Harry doesn’t move for another half an hour, no one has to know.

Harry brushes his teeth, gets dresses, does pushups because he doesn’t know what else to do and after half an hour of scribbling in this notebook, Zayn begins to stir. It’s fascinating to watch someone wake up, how they slowly blink their eyes awake, how they’re confused and out of focus for those first two seconds, especially if they wake up some place new.

Zayn breathes in deeply, this exhausted inhale that Harry can feel in his own lungs, before he rolls on his back and throws an arm over his face. He stays like that and Harry knows he’s debating between turning around to sleep some more and opening his eyes to give into the morning. Zayn chooses the latter with an annoyed groan, sitting up and blinking blearily at Harry.

“How long have you been awake?” Zayn’s voice is a rasp, still laced with sleep.

“Not long,” Harry lies as he tries not to smile at Zayn’s soft rumpled hair that’s sticking out each and every way. His features are relaxed and there’s no sign of a scowl on his face as he scratches at the beard on his check and closes his eyes for a few more deep breaths.

“Yeah, sure.” Zayn keeps groaning these annoyed bursts of air, but Harry knows better than to think it has anything to do with him. Zayn’s never had the best relationship with mornings. “Let me just–”

“Take your time.” Harry jumps up to stand with a smile on his face, because he knows that no matter the disdain look Zayn shoots his way as he trots to the bathroom, he’s smiling back internally, thinking Harry is an idiot.

Harry tidies their things – _his_ things, since Zayn doesn’t have more than a wallet and a phone with him – and heads to the car, decides he’ll wait for Zayn there to give him some privacy. Of course, Zayn ends up taking forever, so Harry takes his notebook with him to read over the first few pages.

It’s strange to read something you wrote years ago, because you see how your brain worked and what you thought when you were sixteen and just started to do what you could now do in your sleep – if you still wanted to do it. Back then, Harry wrote every single thing down, from the hour of when he went to circle the place out, to the exact addresses of the back alleys he could slip into if it came down to it. Now, he doesn’t think he’d be able to put so much effort into something so irrational. These days, he mostly scribbles down sentences or short paragraphs of his thoughts. It’s nothing too deep or profound, just what he’s thinking. It’s self-help at its best. There’s the rare _I had a good night’s sleep tonight_ here, and a small, almost illegible _I wish I could’ve done something_ that Harry barely manages to read now, after it’s been sitting in his notebook for three years.

When Harry starts flipping and reminiscing about the last time his smile felt genuine, Zayn finally makes an appearance with a frown so deep, Harry’s sure his face will get stuck like that.

“Why did we have to be up so early?” Zayn says as soon as he opens the car’s door and stands there, shooting daggers with his eyes at Harry.

“No one said you had to get up,” Harry shrugs.

“Mhm,” Zayn drawls and narrows his eyes, but he gets into the car and buckles himself in.

Unsurprisingly, Zayn barely manages to keep his eyes open as Harry drives back to the main road and heads up north. They didn’t discuss their plan last night and Harry didn’t really want to push it with Zayn, so he has about zero idea where he’s driving them. He’s almost convinced himself that not having a plan _is_ their plan, but it isn’t quite working yet. Harry’s knees are a bit shaky no matter what.

Changes can be difficult. It’s like a hundred foot hurdle that Harry has to crawl towards and then climb over with his bare hands and no rope for safety. A change is usually warranted when something isn’t working and if something isn’t working, then logically, guilt and frustration follow quickly behind to settle right on top of your ribcage. It’s the big changes, like moving is for some people, that throw you off the rails. It’s like someone comes in and turns your like upside down, telling you the horizon is going to be vertical from now on.

So just to put himself at ease – as much as he even can – Harry decides that picking up Zayn’s car will be their first step. Just to have a semblance of something that could possibly be a plan if Harry squints hard enough.

Zayn’s not showing any signs of being awake, so Harry makes a quick stop at a small café before they leave town. The girl behind the counter smiles at Harry as soon as he gets through the door and Harry wishes he could be stuck with her instead of a grumpy Zayn. He could get along with someone that doesn’t mind early mornings and smiles at every stranger they see.

He gets them two large black coffees to go. While the girl is filling the cups to the brim, Harry orders two scones as well, in the hopes of Zayn being more pleasant with something in his stomach. When they were both still getting used to the bitter taste of caffeine, Zayn preferred his coffee black – no milk, no nothing – but just in case, Harry takes a couple of packets of sugar. Looking at the girl’s back as he fills their cups, Harry hopes that Zayn’s taste hasn’t changed.

Harry pays, grins back at the girl who politely wishes him a good morning and gets back in the car to see Zayn’s still leaning against the window with his good arm cradling the left, wounded one. Harry wonders how badly it hurts. He doesn’t know if Zayn was able to sleep with the wound barely beginning to heal or if he tossed and turned and somehow ended up cuddled against Harry for something to sink his fingers in.

“It’s not polite to stare, you know?” Zayn grumbles with his eyes still closed.

Harry shakes his head, careful of the two cups in his hands. “What?”

“You’re staring. Stop it.”

“Sorry.” Harry ducks his head and offers the coffee to Zayn, now more of an apology than a way to ensure a pleasant ride.

Zayn opens one eye, as if carefully appraising the offering, before he nods and takes it, brings it slowly to his lips. “No sugar?” Zayn asks after he slurps the smallest of sips.

“Oh, sorry.” Harry can’t do much about his blush, so he doesn’t try to duck his head again, but he does move to fetch the sugar from his pocket.

“Just two?”

“How many do you need?” Harry’s well aware his voice pitches higher in slight outrage, but he still hands over the other packets – all but the one that he keeps for himself.

“At least four.” Zayn sounds proud in a way Harry thinks he shouldn’t. The way he rips the right corner of the small packets, careful and diligent, one by one, is enough to transfix Harry and make him wait for Zayn to finish before he starts the car.

“Four?”

“I like my coffee sweet, okay?”

“Since when?” Harry questions quietly, his words barely a soft murmur. He’s not ready to admit, to either himself or Zayn, that he’s bother by Zayn’s new coffee order – not that Harry is surprised there’s another hurdle down the road. But that’s not what he wants to concern himself with, so he blinks harshly before he goes on with a, “You’ll get diabetes. Your teeth will rot,” and hopes Zayn chooses to ignore him completely.

And he does. Well, Zayn laughs and shrugs, completely unperturbed by Harry’s slight change of subject, like he’s brushing the idea of both Harry remembering how he liked his coffee and worrying about his general health away. It makes Harry feel as if he’s overreacting, but he really doesn’t think he is.

“So where are we going?”

Harry shrugs and hopes that maybe Zayn will be inclined to decide on something if he doesn’t have Harry’s input to work with.

“Do you want to just get my car? It smells like blood in here.”

“It does, doesn’t it? So I guess we’re going to Vegas?”

“Actually no. My grandpa moved,” Zayn says before he takes another sip of his liquid sugar with a hint of coffee. “Took the car with him.”

“Okay, simple enough.”

Harry puts the car into drive and looks over at Zayn, who’s staring straight ahead, apparently not bothered by them not moving.

“Left of right?” Harry asks, amused.

“Oh,” Zayn’s cheeks flare. “Let’s try right?”

There’s a couple of different ways Harry could react to the confusion in Zayn’s voice. One of them is laughter at Zayn’s uncertainty and another is anger at the fact he doesn’t know where exactly they’re supposed to go. The one Harry goes with and the one he always goes with when it comes to Zayn is a deep sigh and a nod, with just a hint of a smile that he can’t help.

Harry never could stay angry with Zayn for two long, so he backs up the car, takes a ginger sip of his black coffee – no sugar, no milk – and goes right.

They’re both silent for a couple minutes, as Harry keeps one hand on the steering wheel while he finishes his coffee in small delectable sips that slowly jumpstart his brain. Meanwhile, Zayn goes for the chocolate scone, humming his approval every couple of bites that put Harry at ease – no sour mood it is and he couldn’t be more satisfied with his accomplishment, since it’s barely past nine in the morning.

“I’ve been there before,” Zayn starts when his mouth is finally empty of the pastry and is ready for some caffeine again. “Dad put it in a garage. He said he couldn’t keep looking at it rust away.” The way Zayn’s voice is a clear wave, smooth and almost calculated has always made Harry listen, even if Zayn was talking about car parts and engines, things Harry never had any interest in.

“But you don’t know where the garage is?”

“I do, I just don’t know how to get there from here.”

“Well. When you spot something familiar, let me know.” Harry smiles and leans his back into the seat, making himself comfortable.

“Okay,” Zayn says with a nod.

They fall into a pleasant silence after that and Harry can feel himself settle even further into Zayn’s company. They balance each other out – they always have with Harry’s smile and Zayn’s frown. Harry laughed for every time Zayn scraped his knees and ran back to Trisha, tears streaking his cheeks that Harry wanted to kiss away. When Harry fell into one of his stories, rambling about everything he’s seen and everyone he’s met while he was away from Boulder, Zayn listened without saying anything more than an occasional _really?,_ which Harry had always appreciated. Harry and Zayn shared their silence as they twisted their pinkies in the back of his old pickup, just looking up at the stars and thinking their own thoughts – being separately together when Zayn didn’t want to disturb the quiet and Harry didn’t want to disturb Zayn.

That’s why it comes as a slight surprise when Zayn coughs into his fist. It’s one of his tells, something he does to prepare himself for speaking – for putting himself out there.

Harry’s never had a friend in that way where you grow up with someone and see them more than once. Anne was Harry’s mom, best friend and the only person he could count on to calm his breathing and take his nightmares away. She was always so soft, so gentle and thoughtful in her words, always considerate and careful. She was like cotton and Harry loved being wrapped up in her, being surrounded by nothing but her smile that mirrors his own. And Des was their protector, their hero. He was the husband and the father in that typical manly way, buff and solid, rough but delicate once you got past the rigid edges. He had the brow line of a warrior, Harry thinks, the kind of herculean power that could pull a sword out of any stone. It was all Harry needed for a long time. His parents and his friends, the only people he spent more than a few weeks with before it was time to leave again.

Then Harry found Ted, who’s slightly broken and falling apart one memory at a time. He’s wrinkled and worse to wear, but he’s Teddy and Harry wouldn’t want to have him any other way. But all along the way, the only other person that Harry had was Zayn – the boy who Harry desperately wanted to see smile.

He was the first person Harry desperately wanted to see smile and laugh, and then Harry wanted to kiss and hug him, and simply be around him. He wanted to go to Boulder city and he wanted to never leave. There wasn’t a time when Harry didn’t love Zayn. He knows that now, when that list of those people has drastically shrunk. It’s always been about Zayn – how long they could stay, when they’ll come back, if this time he could hold Zayn’s hand. It was all about Zayn, until it wasn’t and Harry couldn’t get out of bed anymore.

They were best friends – the best-est of friends that Anne once told Harry to cherish and keep for as long as he can, because friendships like theirs don’t happen that often. Harry didn’t pay those words much mind, because even then he knew no one else could be like Zayn. No one else could make Harry feel like Zayn. They were best friends. They were confidants, and maybe with some time, they’ll be thick as thieves again.

Harry chuckles at his own joke before Zayn manages to word his thoughts and it must divert whatever it was he wanted to say. Instead, Zayn looks at him sideways, and raises an eyebrow in question.

“I wasn’t laughing at you. I just thought how maybe we’ll be thick as _thieves_ again and well…” Harry laughs again as Zayn keeps staring at him.

“You’re laughing at your own joke? That isn’t even funny?”

“Yeah, and?”

“And apparently, you’re one of those.”

“ _Those_?”

“You’re never been told you’re not funny, right?”

“I’ve been told I’m hilarious, actually,” Harry defends.

“By who, your mom?”

Harry refuses to acknowledge that, he fucking refuses. He keeps his eyes glued to the road ahead even if he feels Zayn’s eyes on him, half beginning him to do something or say anything.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“You know,” Harry interrupts him. “ _You_ told me I was funny.”

Zayn visibly deflates as he lets out a whoosh of air. “Yeah,” he says, running his head over his hair. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You used to love my jokes.”

“I think I was just trying to get into your pants.” Zayn shrugs and Harry whips his head around to look at him.

It takes only a second more before they burst out in laughter, Zayn clutching at his stomach as Harry eyes watering with happy tears. He can’t picture Zayn plotting to get into Harry’s pants and having to actually work at it – not with how desperate Harry was.

“Remember,” Zayn starts, but can’t quite catch his breath yet. “Remember how we used to drive to the middle of the desert?”

Harry almost says _how could I forget_ , before he nods and says a breathless, “Yeah,” instead.

“Maybe we could do that now.” Zayn’s back to looking composed, but Harry can still see the leftover smiling lines around his mouth. For some reason, Harry wants to know how they taste now.

“We could yeah.”

“Hey. We’re here,” Zayn jolts and points to the right. “Turn here.”

Everything’s forgotten after that: how early they both woke up, how Zayn’s coffee order changed and how much Harry missed this. It’s at the far backs of both their thoughts as Zayn points to where Harry should turn, the streets all a big jumble that Zayn seems to know his way around. Before Harry can look around to see where exactly they are, they’re stopping in front of a row of garages and getting out of the car.

Zayn’s eyes are shining, like there’s a treasure behind the heavy metal door and Harry finds himself agreeing. All he’s ever wanted was a _Mustang_. It didn’t even have to be his, as long as he got to drive it around, maybe race it a little. And there it is, black, sleek and shiny, almost like someone polishes it once a week, carefully and with a mindful eye, when Zayn unlocks the garage doors and pulls them up.

It’s low and it looks almost brand new, but most importantly, there are two bold and thick white racing stripes from the hood and right down to the back, curving bellow the exhaust pipe. Harry’s never known much about cars – was more focused on how to rob a bank properly – but he’s always wanted this, exactly this.

Harry re-parks the cars, puts his pickup in the garage as Zayn patiently waits for him in the _Mustang_. It’s the car of Harry’s dreams and he says as much as he sits inside, buckles himself in and immediately goes to smooth his hands over the leather seats and the carefully crafted upholstery, like it really is a precious piece of treasure.

“I can’t believe you don’t have your license.”

Zayn shrugs.

The car runs as any _Mustang_ – beautifully, with a dangerous roar and no chance of stopping. Harry would drive anywhere in this car, because the way people would turn their heads and raise their sunglasses, peep into the darkened windows to get a glimpse of whoever is behind the wheel, makes Harry’s blood boil with excitement. There are a couple of turns Harry could take on a bit slower than he does, but Zayn doesn’t complain, instead he grins stupidly and almost urges Harry to go faster.

It’s a beautiful car that Harry never thought would be in his control like this. Walter – Zayn’s grandfather – passed away a few years ago. He moved away from Boulder city to stay at a retirement home where he was taken care of twenty-four hours a day. Harry remembers the summer when Walter left and the one after, when Zayn whispered it to him, biting his lip and asking if it was okay that he cried.

Before then, Harry had never questioned if crying was normal. If he felt like it, if he couldn’t stop his eyes from watering, well then Harry presumed that it was okay. Anne never questioned it either, but it was the first time Harry started paying attention to Des. When Harry’s shoulders shook and his breathing was ragged, choppy and loud, he glanced at Des and saw the way his mouth got twisted wit a sense of disapproval shining in his eyes and so Harry asked himself too, if it was okay to cry.

Walter’s name was Zayn’s first tattoo – that he speaks of, because he’s still somewhat embarrassed by getting Chinese gibberish on his hip – which he got with Harry that year, who refused to get anything but an outline of a star. The fact they were sixteen and tattooed – branded for life – didn’t sit well with Anne and Trisha, but they were young, stupid and it was Harry and Zayn against the world.

Harry can’t help but look over at Zayn then, at his arms and the sliver of his chest that’s exposed. His skin is covered with tattoos now, with little inked memories and wishes, trinkets that Zayn always said he wanted to have. There’s a threatening tiger on his left bicep – sitting right above the bandage – and the delicate patters on his hands, the lips on the back of his palm. Some are new and some Harry’s seen before, has tasted and outlined with his tongue when he just wanted to touch Zayn, just feel him and know that he was really there. Harry’s collected some ink along the years too, but there’s nothing new, nothing that Zayn hasn’t seen before.

This is as far as they’ve managed to get with their plan. There was only one item on the list and now they can successfully tick it off. It doesn’t really put Harry’s mind at ease. He’s used to details and set locations, precise hours and deadlines that can’t be missed. And as much fun as driving around a little pointlessly sounds, it’s pushing towards Harry’s limit of spontaneity.

“So where do you want to go next?” Harry asks. He can admit he didn’t expect a direct answer, but he was looking to get something more than just a shrug.

“Do you want to do something in particular?” he asks further, trying to at least see some reaction on Zayn’s face that will give him an idea of something. Anything.

Zayn sighs and turns his head to look at Harry. He blinks, once, twice and then looks back at the road. “I thought I’d see something and do it, you know?”

Harry hums. “Okay.” It’s not much. It’s nothing, really, but that just means their options are wide open. “Well, what do you want to do then?”

“I told you–”

“No, I mean if you could do _anything_ , what would you do?”

Zayn frowns. He presses his lips together in a tight line and scowls just slightly, just enough that if Trisha would see him, she’d run her thumb in the space between Zayn’s eyebrows, smoothing out the lines and drawing a smile to his lips. Zayn’s not thinking, Harry’s sure of that, because when Zayn thinks, when he really tries to figure something out he does it with words, pacing up and down and saying it out loud. He’s silent now and his eyes are drifting to the left, like he’s remembering something, replaying it in his head, seeing it all over again.

“I want to see the world.”

Harry twitches. He’s surprised by Zayn’s clear voice, his surety, his conviction that has Harry nodding his head, the words _Let’s do it_ on the tip of his tongue.

It’s not something he just thought up on the spot. Zayn sounds so adamant that Harry wonders how long it’s been there, in his thoughts, floating around and waiting for someone to hear it for the first time. But it’s not that easy, it isn’t easy at all, because all they can do in a month is see the entirety of Nevada. That’s it. No other country, no continent and definitely not the world

Zayn shakes his head and clears his throat, before he says a gentler, “I want to swim.”

“Okay,” Harry nods just like he did before. “That’s a start. Ocean or pool?”

“Pool.” With he way Zayn snorts, ocean isn’t really an option.

 _Motel 6_ has a pool at the back. It’s the same pool where Harry learned how to swim. It’s the first pool where Harry almost drowned when Des took away his wings, and it’s the first pool where Harry dove under water. Anne used to throw him up in the air, as high as she could and Harry would splash in the water, half of it outside by the time it was bed time. It was a good summer.

So they drive back to their motel and they talk. Chitchat could be a way to describe it, but it’s not really. Zayn says he’s tired and Harry mentions dinner. They talk about the weather and the car. The back of Harry’s neck itches to ask something, anything that would make them ‘old friends catching up’ instead of ‘strangers not letting the silence linger for too long’. Harry wants to know everything that’s happened, everything that’s changed and he wouldn’t mind Zayn starting off from the day Harry left. Every person he met and everyone he said goodbye to in those three years, but Harry keeps it light instead. He keeps nodding and humming and he listens to what Zayn offers him.

Once, Harry knew everything there was to know about Zayn. Now, he doesn’t think he knows enough to reach the bare minimum above acquaintance. He doesn’t know if he and Zayn are even friends anymore. He doesn’t know if they ever will be again.

“Knock, knock.”

“Harry…”

“Come on,” Harry whines. “Knock, knock.”

“I’m not doing it.” Zayn crosses his arms and sets his face to a harsh blankness.

“Knock, knock,” Harry whispers loudly, grinning like a fool, because this is fun. This doesn’t make him want to cry and scream and wish he could rewind time. “Knock. Knock.”

“Go away.”

“Hey,” Harry drawls. “That’s not how it goes.”

“Are you sure?” Zayn asks, but his arms uncross and Harry can see him fighting a smile.

“You’re supposed to say ‘who’s there’.”

“And you’re supposed to be funny.”

Harry guffaws and laughs, loud and unabashed, throwing his head back. He doesn’t even care if Zayn’s laughing too or not, because he can’t help himself. It’s not even funny – because Harry can tell a good joke, thank you very much – and the thought that he’s finally lost it briefly crosses his mind, but he still can’t stop. But when he does look over at Zayn, he’s the same boy that Harry remembers: his tongue pressed against his teeth, nose wrinkled and eyes squinting with happiness and mischief.

They reach the motel at sundown, because Harry may have taken the longer route back just to drive a little while longer. Zayn didn’t say anything against it even if he probably knows the roads around here too – maybe not as well as Harry does though. Harry makes a mental note to fill up the tank before they go anywhere tomorrow morning or they won’t get that far. They get out of the car, Harry locks the door and they make their way up to the room.

Zayn practically throws himself on top of the bed as soon as he can, lying star-fished on top of the covers. His t-shirt – Harry’s t-shirt – raises up a little, the hem almost at Zayn’s waist and there’s just about nothing else Harry wants to do then stupidly ogle until his tongue falls out of his mouth, but he can’t, not now, not when he’s trying to be Zayn’s friend again.

“Wanna get drunk?” Zayn says into the pillow.

“Right now?” Harry’s unsure, since he’s never been much of a drinker – part of the curse of never being too far away from your parents.

“Yeah. We have a mini bar.” Zayn points to it, next to the bed, still on his stomach.

Harry’s been drunk a handful of times in his life – and he’s drank alcohol, even a beer or two, that exact amount as well. It’s not something he feels joy in doing. Black holes in your memory, that cotton taste in your mouth the morning after, the scorching headache, stomach desperately grumbling for food but not being able to hold anything down. Harry doesn’t want to get drunk, because he has to drive tomorrow and he doesn’t need to get drunk every weekend to know what happens once your inhabitations are lowered and your deepest desires float to the surface of your brain with nothing there to stop them from spilling over the edge of your lips.

“Okay, sure,” he says. Harry knows he’ll regret it tomorrow, but for right now, he could have a little fun.

*

Zayn has his fifth vodka-tonic in his hand when he slurs, “I have never fallen off a skateboard.”

“Hey, that was one time,” Harry pouts and takes a sip. He winces after, but it’s not as bad anymore. He’s not drunk per se, because he’s only on his third glass. Zayn has been cheating throughout the game, but Harry hasn’t said anything. Every time Harry had to take a drink, Zayn did too, but since it’s not actually against the rules, Harry can’t exactly object.

Never have I ever is something neither of them have ever played. Zayn suggested they play it and add it to the list of _everything_ Harry has neatly tucked into his thoughts, keeping tabs on it as it progresses. The game’s actually not as bad as Harry thought it was going to be. It started off with what he thinks is the typical ‘I have never smoked a cigarette’ and ‘I have never robbed a bank’. The things they already knew, the ones they talked about that are still fresh. But then it turned into a ‘who can remember what they did when they were young best’ competition, which Zayn is clearly winning. Or losing, Harry’s not sure anymore.

“It was embarrassing.”

“I barely stepped on it and the thing moved!” Harry waves his hands and maybe spills some vodka onto the carpet. No one notices.

“Disgraceful,” Zayn goes on.

“You’re the one that let go of my hands.”

“Well excuse me for trying to teach you how to skate.”

“You just let go of me,” Harry repeats as the memory comes back to him. He thinks he can still feel how his ass hurt. He could barely walk for two days. “You injured me.”

Zayn looks at him, his head lowered as he brings the cup to his lips and takes a tentative sip, before he hums a “Mhm.” Harry can see how his throat contracts when Zayn swallows, his Adam’s apple bopping with it.

Harry shivers. Zayn has the glass pressed to his lips and he isn’t taking his eyes off of Harry, like he’s studying him or maybe he’s aiming, trying to guess where he should shoot him first, where it would hurt the most. His eyes keep moving from Harry’s forehead to his nose and mouth, up and down, up and down, and Harry shivers under his gaze. It’s uncomfortable to be looked at like that. Before, Harry would’ve blushed and smirked, crawled over to Zayn and climb into his lap. Now it just makes him duck his head down and close his eyes.

Zayn empties his cup and stands suddenly, smiling from ear to ear. “Let’s go to the pool.”

And Harry wants to object, because Zayn doesn’t look steady as he stands there, slightly leaning to the left, but a swim sounds so good right now that Harry stands up and leads the way.

*

Harry can feel the water as soon as he steps out of the room. The sky is pitch dark and the best thing about being outside in the desert so late at night are the stars. It’s like there’s an uncountable amount, an infinity of some bright, some scintillating little dots that aren’t all that little when it comes it down to it. Harry has the passing thought of feeling insignificant underneath their vastness, but that’s what everyone does when they think of stars. They feel little and insignificant, lost and like they’re shining in the sky as well. So instead of being consumed by their number, Harry grins and keeps on walking with his eyes on the sky.

It is overwhelming though, as he cranes his neck back a little. Counting them would be pointless and it might ruin their beauty and diminish their importance. Counting them would be impossible. Harry wants to draw galaxies with his finger again. He wants to connect the stars as if they’re dots like he used to when he was seventeen. Zayn followed the traces Harry drew and marveled at the shapes – the faces and hearts all staring back at them once Harry linked them together.

Harry takes off his t-shirt right as he sees the square pool. It’s small, definitely fitting for this motel, but it’ll be big enough to take some of his stress away. He can hear gentle footsteps behind him, but Harry’s too busy undoing the buttons on his jeans to turn around. He strips down to his boxers and stands at the edge, looks down at the still water and takes a second before he jumps in – head first – and disrupts its lazy lines.

Harry swims the length of the pool underwater, his eyes closed and arms stretched in front of him so that he can feel when he reaches the end. The water’s cold, fresh against his sweaty and tensed skin. Breathing in deeply and feeling how his body sways with the waves he created, Harry smiles and turns, wiping back the hair that’s stuck on his forehead to see Zayn’s just standing there with his head down and his eyes on Harry again, not blinking. Harry can feel how his smile melts away with Zayn’s expression – wide eyes and his bottom lips pinched between his teeth – as if it’s a balancing act gone wrong.

“Coming in? The water’s nice,” Harry tries as he takes a step closer, but Zayn looks unsure, like he can’t make his mind up. “It’s not deep. See?” Harry says as he stands up straight and stretches his arms away from his body, the water barely reaching his chest.

He can see how Zayn is thinking it over, like he’s weighing his options, but then something must clicks and he’s determined now. All of a sudden, Zayn’s set on getting in, his eyebrows firm and brave.

It’s no secret that Zayn can’t swim. Though, it’s less _can’t_ and more _doesn’t want to_. He used to sit on the dock with his ankles crossed as Harry jumped into the lake, over and over again, laughing and threatening to splash him, reveling in how Zayn’s eyes always raked over his bare chest when he’d come out to sit next to him to dry off.

Zayn’s down to his jeans when Harry reaches the other end of the pool, his hands on the tiles next to Zayn’s bare feet. His head is turned upwards and he hopes he doesn’t look as desperate to see Zayn take off the last piece of clothing as he is. It’s just been so long since he’s been this close to Zayn. It’s been too long, because last night can’t count. It doesn’t count if Zayn’s not there to see it too.

For how ready and determined Zayn looked not a minute ago, he’s biting his cheek now, somehow unconvinced again, so Harry takes a step back and smiles at him, opens his arms a little and waits for Zayn to take a step closer.

Zayn’s sitting on the edge with his legs in the water, gripping the tiles like a cat would when Harry’s – almost – had enough. He’s had enough of standing in the now-too-still-water, waiting for Zayn to make the last move. So Harry moves instead, stepping closer again slowly enough for Zayn to open his legs for Harry to stand here.

“Trust me?” Harry teases and he knows it could go over with either Zayn nodding or so, so wrong in less than a blink of an eye that will make his head spin with whiplash.  But just like that, slow and steady, Zayn puts his slightly shaking hands on Harry’s shoulders and smiles a little.

Harry smiles gently at him again, something reassuring he hopes, as he slowly as ever goes to hold Zayn’s waist. It’s all so familiar, so ‘been there done that’ that Harry doesn’t even think about it when he lifts Zayn up a little, as Zayn puts his weight – and trust – on Harry.

Harry gently lowers him into the water as Zayn visibly sighs, relaxing just like Harry did at the first feel of the water. They’re standing chest to chest now, toe to toe and it’s not new either. It’s even more familiar than simple physical contact.

They stand there. They don’t move, don’t even blink. Harry’s not sure he’s breathing as his eyes move from Zayn’s mouth, to his nose, along the line of his jaw and back up to his eyes again. They stand there, hands on hips and shoulders, and take each other in, overwhelmed and at ease.

It’s still Zayn and he’s the same boy that laughs with his heart and tongue against his teeth. His eyes haven’t aged and his lips are just as inviting as they always have been. It’s still Zayn, but it’s also not. It’s like someone pressed fast-forward ten years ago and they flashed to this moment, where they’re just looking and taking in all the subtle changes that they will always notice about each other. Zayn’s tattoos on his chest, a litter of them on his arms and even his leg. The new sense of awkward maturity that neither of them had when they were sixteen or seventeen years old. Harry wonders if Zayn sees anything too, maybe a wrinkle around his eyes that wasn’t there before. Maybe Harry looks older, more grown up as well. Maybe he seems sadder, but he wouldn’t be surprised by that.

Harry breathes out a sobering breath and breaks the moment by closing his eyes. He goes to take a step back when Zayn grips his shoulders and sinks his nails into his skin. Harry almost moans, almost ruins everything when he steps back and looks at Zayn again.

“You can float on your back,” Harry suggests, because it’s what they used to do when Zayn was feeling brave. Never in a lake though, because it’s too deep and Zayn has to see where he’s stepping, but Harry could manage to convince Zayn to step into pool with his infinite charm and a promise of a generous reward afterwards. Sometimes it worked, but sometimes it didn’t and Zayn just gave him a look that said _better luck next time._

“Help me?” Zayn whispers and looks down.

They walk to the middle of the pool, holding hands, because Zayn refuses to let go. Supporting his back, Harry eases Zayn to lie down on the water, promising not to let go either.

“Close your eyes,” he prompts, when Zayn’s relaxed enough to start breathing again. “Come on.”

Zayn sighs, but does as he’s told as he clenches his hands into fists.

“Now just breathe, okay?”

It’s after a minute that Harry takes his hands away from Zayn’s back, letting him go and feeling sick in the moment he loses all contact with Zayn’s skin. Harry wants to throw himself onto Zayn and beg him to stay. He wants to curl himself up into a ball that Zayn could carry around forever. But he doubts Zayn would appreciate it – or do more than smooth one eyebrow with his thumb and shake his head disappointingly. So instead, Harry lies on his back too and lets his body float around as his thoughts float away.

They’ve done this twice before, but Harry doesn’t think this will end like those times did, because he barely knows what’s going through Zayn’s head anymore. They don’t talk as they drift around each other and if this was any other day, Harry would already be sick of the silence and the worries that come with it. But, as a twist he didn’t see coming, Zayn is the perfect distraction, because he’s replaced Harry’s usual thoughts with new ones that are actually old, like they’ve been in his head before, because they have been.

They stay in the pool for however long, breathing in and looking up at the sky. There are even more stars then there were before. They’re everywhere, lighting up the sky like a stage, the curtain call of the sunrise far enough for them to have their five minutes before it’s all over and they’re invisible again. The sky is familiar, because it’s always there. It isn’t falling and Harry can always count on looking up and seeing the same artfulness every time. Harry knows it’s over when he hears a splash of water that means Zayn’s standing up – probably sick with being in the water for so long.

Harry stands up a while later, floating around the pool and wishing he could stay here forever before he has to get up to head back to their room. When he’s upright, he finds Zayn sitting back against the stairs of the pool in the far left corner. There’s something familiar about that too, in the look on Zayn’s face – it’s as inviting as it’s ever been. And Harry doesn’t want to think about it – doesn’t want to second think anymore, as he treads the water until he’s in front of Zayn again.

As smoothly as Harry can – which isn’t all that smooth – he bends down until he perches his hands against the top step, bracketing Zayn’s shoulders. And then before Zayn can change his mind too, Harry leans down, not daring to look at Zayn’s eyes for fear of getting lost there before he closes the distance between them completely.

A shiver runs down Harry’s spine when their lips meet. When all those memories come rushing back and he knows Zayn’s lips are just as soft as they’ve always been, Harry feels like he’s revealed some kind of a secret. He’s not entirely proud of how quickly he presses against Zayn’s lips or how little it takes for him to part his own – hopeful and completely lost in it – but Zayn’s always had this patient way of kissing. The foreplay to the foreplay that used to drive Harry crazy.

Zayn bites Harry’s lips so gently that Harry could easily miss it if he wasn’t feeling every little thing so intensely, like his nerve endings are on fire and he’s feeling everything all at once now.  Harry’s stuck in a tornado but there’s no chance he wants to get out. It feels like the reel of a movie is spinning backwards, going and going until it lands on when it all began. It’s the scene that was once romantic and perfect is just an interlude now, like a filler that bears no importance.

The kiss doesn’t last long – not nearly as much as Harry imagines – but it’s more than enough for Harry to never want to stop again. The wet glide of their lips, Zayn’s hands gripping Harry’s hips and how Harry has to actively hold back his moans – it’s all going straight to his head.

It’s why it doesn’t last long in the end, because Harry doesn’t know what Zayn’s thinking and he doesn’t want to push him into something Zayn wouldn’t want. So, reluctantly, Harry pulls back, looks at Zayn for a second and kisses him again, just once, just a quick peck – a souvenir to take home and remember this.

*

They pick up their clothes by the side of the pool and patter to their room with their feet wet, hair dripping and hearts pounding so hard, Harry can hear how they’re in sync with their steps. Harry could do so much more; he wants to do so much more. He wants to know how Zayn’s skin tastes, if Zayn’s breath still comes out in these long, suffering streams if Harry licks every inch of his skin, teasing him with his tongue. Harry wants so badly, that as soon as they’re in the room, he dumps the clothes on the floor and heads to the bathroom, saying a quick, “Shower,” before he clicks the door closed.

The hot contrast of the shower is pleasant on his skin, falling over his head and on his shoulder, warming Harry from the outside in. He stands there and wishes, almost praying that he and Zayn can find a way to be friends. At least friends, is what Harry keeps on repeating, because that’s what they were first and foremost. It wasn’t complicated, they didn’t need to be careful around each other and Harry could kiss Zayn whenever he wanted to. They could sit pressed together as close as they wanted to. They could do anything and now Harry doesn’t even know what to say, little less do. He doesn’t know what’s allowed. Harry doesn’t want the word ‘no’ to ever come from Zayn’s lips. Not when it’s something Harry wants to do so much, his skin is on fire and he’s blinded completely by the flame from his chest. Harry doesn’t think he could handle it.

He still hasn’t moved when he hears the door open. He says a fast, “Give me a minute,” over the blurred glass, thinking Zayn’s getting cold and impatient with how long he’s taking. But then, before Harry can reach for the soap, the shower door is sliding open and Zayn’s standing there, stark naked and asking a question that Harry answers by taking a step back. Harry would never say no to Zayn.

They stand there, together but separate, chest to chest and their eyes raking over their bodies. For a moment, Harry smiles, because it’s familiar, it’s them, it’s like it was before. They used to do everything together during the time Harry was in Boulder, glued at the hip and refusing to sleep in separate beds even when they were five years old. He has to break the moment though, when Zayn smiles too with this small glint in his eye that Harry wants to wrap himself around.

Harry reaches for the small bottle of soap with one hand and places the other on Zayn’s hips, gripping it for a second and almost leaning in, before he turns Zayn around. There’s the fan-tail that Harry’s always had a weak spot for, so as smooth as anything, he places a kiss over it, feeling Zayn’s warm skin under his lips. For a second, Harry stays as he is and breathes over Zayn’s neck, as Zayn’s hands find their purchase on the tiles.

He can feel the power, how Zayn wouldn’t stop him no matter what he did – sink his teeth in his shoulder, kept on kissing him until it was all Harry knew, licking and touching until his hands would melt into Zayn. Instead of indulging them both, Harry brings his soapy hands to Zayn’s shoulders, thumbs at the tattoo as his fingers sink into his skin. There’s a moment when Zayn sighs and lowers his whole body, the tension gone and finally relaxing into Harry’s hands.

Harry keeps running his hands over Zayn’s back and chest and arms and legs. They exchange the soap bubbles as they’re pressed together under the showerhead, until Zayn shuts the water off and they step out to dry each other off in front of the mirror. Zayn hangs the towels as Harry brings them both underwear and toothbrushes. They brush their teeth with silent smiles and gentle hip bumps, Harry rinsing out the toothpaste after Zayn.

They crawl onto the bed, lay on their backs and their shoulders touch. Harry feels how words bubble up on his tongue, question after question ready to burst out and explode over them both, but he keeps quiet, closes his eyes and breathes out slow and steady. Zayn turns to switch off the light and moves closer to Harry, pushes at his hip until Harry laughs and rolls over on his side. Zayn wraps his arms around him, buries his nose at the nape of Harry’s neck and breathes in.

It warms Harry more than the shower did, puts him at ease more than Zayn’s hands sliding over his wet skin with the soap. Harry’s never been so content and nervous at the same time. It’s settling deep in his stomach, a heavy weight that doesn’t feel as stifling as it usually does. It warms him up until he shivers, cold to the bone. It’s a rose with thorns. A breath of smog. A light in the fog.

It’s familiar and new all over again, because it’s different as much as it’s exactly the same as it’s always been. Seeing two reflections in the mirror, two smiley faces and two tooth brushes on the edge of the sink – it’s all been there before. And Harry can have it all again. He can have the lazy afternoons in bed, the long drives with the music basting and gentle hands around his waist as he drift closer to sleep. At least that’s what Harry tells himself when he cards his fingers with Zayn’s and Zayn tightens his grips, inches closer and sighs in content.

Harry can have this again. Maybe he can have Zayn again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And as a general health warning: don't try the super glue thing at home! Go to a doctor instead, because they know what they're doing! And I'm just here, making shit up as I go.
> 
> [tumblr](http://itsallaboutzarry.tumblr.com) 


	3. A Gummy Bear or Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the longer than intended wait, but here is the update as promised!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

There aren’t many things that Harry loves more than waking up in someone’s arms. It’s warm, it smells of summer and it’s like being wrapped in a blanket of affection. Waking up in strong arms, a tight grip and no way of falling is a safety, like nothing could get to you as long as you stay perfectly still and bury your face in the pillow for five more minutes.

But Harry wakes up with a startle. He presses his face against the duvet, but there’s no real warmth there, no strong arms, no safety. His head plummets from the clouds and his heart cracks open when he can _feel_ how he can’t feel Zayn behind him. The air is cold and Harry isn’t sure he’s breathing when he turns around and there’s no one there. The sheets are crumpled, creating the same shape as his heart is twisting itself into, and he can feel a sob is already trying to break through his chest to see the light of an early morning. It’s almost eight in the morning, which is an hour Zayn’s never been familiar with. He must have left in the middle of the night, when Harry was dreaming of soft lips and changes, when he was sure he and Zayn got another chance at being close.

If there’s nothing better than waking up with someone holding you close and luring them out of sleep with soft touches and even softer lips, then there’s nothing worse than to fall asleep in shared serenity and waking up alone. The duvet is colder that it was on Harry’s bed at home, the room darker than when Zayn switched the lights off. It doesn’t hurt, it just makes Harry numb, his face broken into nothing and his heart still beating – barely, but it’s still there.

He turns back around, facing away from where Zayn should be and Harry sees the room’s door is ajar, letting in only a sliver of the morning’s light. And that does hurt, actually, that Zayn couldn’t even properly close the door when he snuck out. He didn’t care about Harry at all, didn’t even care if he was safe or not.

And maybe Harry should feel stupid, but he doesn’t, because his thoughts aren’t based on any ludicrous imaginations or some empty fear. Zayn would have every right to leave and Harry couldn’t hold it against him, because would be tit for tat. Harry would be the pot, Zayn would the kettle, and they’d both be as black as the night sky. But Zayn hasn’t left yet.

Harry does think he should feel some form of dumb though, because he sees a figure walk past the door and then back again, as if pacing right outside the room. He doesn’t but he should, because the figure is slim, a quick shadow with a cloud of smoke following him around, chasing him and not letting him go. Harry can tell it’s Zayn from the quick glances he gets every five to ten seconds.

First, Harry wonders why Zayn is up so early. Eight in the morning isn’t an hour Zayn knows. Harry doubts he’s ever seen a sunrise – at least not one after he woke up. Not even Harry could kiss Zayn awake in the morning when he used to go for his runs, or years later, when waking up around the same time as his parents came too naturally to Harry. Zayn’s never had a reason to be up this fast, so Harry’s left lying confused on the bed, still a little bleary and his skin patterned with the folds from the pillows.

But when Harry figures that the reason why Zayn is awake isn’t really as important as what’s making him pace so stubbornly, he heaves a sigh and drags himself out of bed. He doesn’t bother to put on a t-shirt as he patters his way to the door, opens it and leans against the frame, milling sleep away from his eyes.

“Morning,” Harry rasps.

Zayn turns around quickly, gives Harry a look that he figures says _Good morning_ , and continues pacing. He’s walking from their room all down to the end of the outside hallway and back again, until he reaches Harry and turns around, keeps on making a whole in the ground. Harry looks on and interprets it as a breathing exercise for himself. He inhales when Zayn’s walking away and breathes out slowly as Zayn is coming closer. It calms Harry, but he still feels a little shell-shocked from convincing himself that he may have imagined Zayn ever being here.

“Why are you pacing?”

Zayn stops for a second, foot in the air as he puffs out a thicker cloud of smoke that swirls away. “I’m not pacing,” he shakes his head and goes on. He flicks his cigarette over the railing and keeps on pacing.

Zayn isn’t thinking, Harry’s sure. When Zayn is trying to figure something out, unraveling his thoughts until they make sense, he doesn’t do it quietly. It’s a flaw of his that Harry could always relate to – talking until you can’t anymore. Until you don’t have anything left to say. He’s remembering something probably, going over something for the umpteenth time if Harry still knows him. Zayn is probably trying to convince himself into something. It must not be working, Harry thinks.

It doesn’t matter either way, because the next time Zayn walks past him and turns, Harry grabs his wrist and stops him. Zayn frowns, but doesn’t protest, so Harry pulls on his hand to bring him closer so that he can place his lips against his temple. Harry wants to comb his fingers through Zayn’s hair, but he refrains and rather enjoys this, this new-found old closeness.

Zayn’s shoulders sag a little, relaxing when Harry kisses the side of his head and murmurs, “Come on,” before he starts pulling him again, this time back to the bed.

“You smell of smoke.” Harry doesn’t whine, but he could if he wanted to, because he has every right to not want to have cigarette smoke hovering under his nose. “I know I said this before, but I really don’t like–”

Zayn kisses him them. Their limbs are twisted on top of the covers, and Harry knows it’s only so he doesn’t have to listen to another one of Harry’s life-lessons, but even if Harry would want to complain some more, he can’t exactly do that with Zany’s wet lips pressing against his own. Zayn runs his tongue over Harry’s bottom lip and Harry forgets what he wanted to say in the first place, instead humming and half sighing.

They kiss until Zayn is straddling his hips and they’re both breathless with it, Zayn’s lips bitten red and shining wet. He goes to lick over them and Harry shivers with the thought of how Zayn’s chasing after Harry’s taste.

“What’re we doing next?”

“Isn’t this _your_ plan?” Harry rubs his thumbs into Zayn’s hips.

“You could contribute.” Zayn flicks Harry at his side.

Harry doesn’t squawks, but he does pout. “I didn’t think of something we could do, actually.”

“Great,” Zayn says, beaming, as he jumps off Harry and claps his hands together.

*

It’s something Harry thought of as he was floating around in the pool. He wants to brag and point at his chest, praise and pat himself on the back with how wide Zayn’s smile and eyes are once they park in front of a giant neon _go-cart_ sign. They passed it on the way back to the motel yesterday and the sign caught Harry’s eye when Zayn was appreciating the weather and Harry’s attention may have slightly drifted away from the conversation.

Harry pays for them to have a couple of go’s around the track, and then they’re being fitted into the ‘professional’ jumpers that are too baggy and too shabby to look good on anyone. Yet, of course, when Zayn is all zipped up with a helmet in his hands, Harry has to wipe at his mouth for fear of drooling all over himself. Zayn manages to look as an actual professional driver in the red jumper, which is too loose around his hips and slightly tight at his shoulders. Harry feels self-conscious and Zayn looks like a model slash drag-race winner slash five year old kid, all happy and grinning, near jumping from joy.

Zayn slides up close to Harry right as he’s about to pull on his helmet and kisses him quickly, nothing more than a press of lips that makes them both smile.

“Thank you,” Zayn whispers close to Harry’s lips, who has to adjust his jumper a little when they walk over to their go-carts.

Without letting him, Zayn wins all ten laps, overtaking Harry with ease and laughing so loud, Harry can almost hear him over the engines. It’s more fun than Harry thought it was going to be. They drive around the track, just the two of them in the place, and Harry really does deserve a pat on the back for thinking of this. Zayn actually does enjoy cars and he would enjoy driving an actual one if he just had the patience for it, but this is more than good enough.

Yaser had a garage, probably still does, and since he’s the only mechanic in town and a couple miles around it too, he’s always had a car in there, either waiting to be fixed or up on the platform already, the wheels hanging listlessly in the air. Zayn’s spent countless hours in there, watching and listening, even wielding his own tools on small jobs that Yaser taught him how to do. That’s what Zayn was supposed to be – a mechanic – from the day he was born. He was the one who would take over the garage when Yaser retired. As Harry drives behind Zayn, he wonders if that’s still the plan. If after the month ends, Zayn goes back to Boulder and finally starts living his life.

They’re the same in that way. Harry was born into his job and so was Zayn. There was little they could do to get out of it, because it was just meant to be. As ridiculous as it sounds, it was always written in the stars for them. But Harry couldn’t do it, so he said fuck you to the stars and his parents and sulked in his room until they appeased him and Harry kind of retired at eighteen. Zayn though, he’d never disappoint his parents like that, not Yaser and especially not Trisha. If they want him to be a mechanic, then that’s what Zayn’ll be. Because it’s the right thing and Zayn’s always been a good son, not like Harry, who never could conform to the plan that he was raised with.

They stop at a diner and eat like they haven’t for days. They’re both starving, so Zayn ends up ordering the biggest beef steak they have and Harry goes for the chicken salad with baked potatoes. They steal each other’s food and twist their ankles together as they eat. They laugh and they split a beer. It’s so easy, that Harry doesn’t have time to think about anything except the way Zayn’s eyes disappear when he smiles or how he always cleans his spoon off on the napkin before he stabs it at a piece of tomato from Harry’s bowl. It’s pleasant and it makes Harry feel warm, like he’s going to be whole again soon and his heart has a renewed beat – a firmer _thump_ in his chest.

For a moment, when Harry almost has to unbutton his jeans because of how full he is, they sit in silence, sated and suddenly lazy, content as they can be. The waitress comes to pick up their plates and Zayn thanks her, says that it’s the best meal he’s had in months. She smiles warmly at him and gives them a slice of pie to share on the house. They groan with the thought of having to eat more, but they still pick up their forks again and moan as they take a taste of the still-warm apple pie.

“How have you been?” Zayn asks as he leans back with the fork in his hand.

It shouldn’t take Harry by surprise, but it somehow does. They haven’t breached anything personal yet, keeping it light and distant, and Harry wishes they didn’t have to start just yet, when they’re happy and there’s more pie left to eat.

“You know…” Harry says and shrugs, thinks of what he could say to not ruin the day completely. “I’m gonna be okay.” He wonders if he could’ve gone for something more uplifting or believable, but now that he’s said it he can’t take it back. He can avoid it though. “What about you?” he asks and fills his mouth with a forkful of crust.

“I am okay.” It’s a lie, is the first thing Harry thinks when Zayn says it. Zayn nods and shrugs at the same time. “I’ve been busy with work and stuff.”

“So you work for Yaser, now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn nods and smiles. “Started working for real about two years ago. I have my own station in the shop.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.” Zayn sighs and heaves himself upright, putting his fork down.

*

They circle back to the motel. Harry doesn’t drive as fast this time, doesn’t rev up the engine as they wait at stop signs and red lights. They drive and they drive with no music on, no words exchanged between them, nothing but the sound of the world spinning around them as it always does, unbothered and undeterred. They drive for hours, because Harry takes the back roads that take them round in circles around the town. The roads are mostly empty and perfect for them to just go go go, steady and straight. There are a couple of clouds in the sky, colored with playful pinks and deep oranges that darken to a violent lilac by the time Harry parks the _Mustang_ in front of the motel. They’re both lazy and slow as they get out the car and up the stairs, their legs liquid as they walk.

They still don’t say anything as Zayn takes off his t-shirt and looks over at Harry, who’s standing with his back pressed against the door, tired. Harry stares at Zayn for a moment before he nods and takes his top off too, throwing the t-shirt on top of the bed before he opens the door and goes back down the stairs, Zayn in tow.

Harry floats on his back with his eyes closed, because tonight he doesn’t want to bother with the stars, with how they _do_ make him feel insignificant, like he’s no one important, nothing in particular, so painfully common that it shakes his bones. The scintillating little dots that flicker on the night sky are so special and so beautiful that they’re worth more than Harry could ever realize. But there’s just so many of them, of the stars that no one has ever counted that they all just bleed into one massive entity, because being so special amongst billions of equally bright shining instances, is nothing special at all. They’re vast and overwhelming, and yet the sky is always there, it isn’t falling and it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.

Zayn catches Harry’s hand in the water and intertwines their fingers as they both float in the pool, their heads aligned with the other’s feet.

“We should do something with animals,” Zayn says softly, as to not disturb the night.

“Okay,” Harry agrees.

“Okay.”

Zayn let’s go of Harry’s hand and stands, grasping the edge of the pool to not slip under the water and Harry stands as well. Harry doesn’t really think about what he’s about to do. He steps closer to Zayn, crowds him in the corner as he leans forward and kisses him. Harry wants to do it, so he does, completely unbothered by what Zayn might have to say, because Harry needs to take something for himself too.

They kiss as their hands roam over wet skin, gripping at each other like they might float away. Zayn’s fingers are pressed at the nape of Harry’s neck to bring him closer and keep him there. And Zayn takes something too. Stumbling out of the pool and up the stairs, they bump along the way as they step into the shower. Zayn gives Harry the bottle of soap again and turns his back to him, shoulders hunched forward to expand his back. So Harry does what he did last night.

He sinks his thumbs into Zayn’s back, fingers pressing against Zayn’s clavicle and his lips fall to Zayn’s neck, wet with the hot water falling over them both. As Zayn’s head falls to the side, Harry licks a line up the side of his neck, kissing behind his ear and reveling in the deep sigh that escapes past Zayn’s mouth. Harry’s hands move over Zayn’s shoulder and down his sides to rest on Zayn’s hips, gripping the skin there before they slide forwards, fingers gentle over Zayn’s stomach. Harry steps forward and presses himself against Zayn’s back. He wraps one arm around Zayn’s chest to hold him close to himself as he wraps the other hand around Zayn’s cock, his fingers not as gentle anymore.

Harry can hear Zayn’s sharp inhale, but that’s the only sound he makes as Harry gives him an experimental tug, waiting to see what Zayn does next, if he’ll moan or if he’ll stop breathing altogether. Harry goes slowly at first, his hand moving with a steady patience he never thought he’d be able to have given the chance to have Zayn so close again. He’s hard too now, the head of his cock pressing against the back of Zayn’s thighs as he circles his thumb over Zayn’s head and looks over his shoulder to watch how Zayn’s stomach tenses, muscles already trembling.

Zayn grips both of Harry’s forearms as he shifts his hips forward, chasing Harry’s hand before he rolls them back and Harry moans, breaching the silence that fell around them. He hasn’t felt this in so long, this all-encompassing heat that spreads like wildfire from his toes and all to the tops of his earlobes. There’s water and soap between them and Harry could easily come from just this, just from rubbing against Zayn, raw and fast.

Harry grips Zayn at his base and he can almost feel how Zayn’s knees buckle a little, like he can’t stand upright anymore. It would be so much better if he had Zayn spread underneath him, desperate and loud, clinging to the sheets as he’d press himself up at Harry, but this is all Harry needs. It’s all he’s wanted since he left three years ago.

When Zayn turns, Harry feels like falling too. Seeing the look in Zayn’s eyes, how his pupils are blown and his bottom lip is bitten red is enough for Harry to moan again and lose himself completely, kissing and licking at Zayn’s lips until they’re swollen. Zayn wraps his hand around Harry’s cock too, tugging slowly before he speeds up, his grip tight around the head just like Harry likes. They’re losing rhythm and all semblance of finesse flows out of the window when Harry groans. They kiss and pant into each other’s mouths and tremble with the pleasure as they jerk each other off, tight and slick.

Harry wants to tell Zayn how much he’s missed him. He wants to kiss Zany until Zayn knows that Harry meant for any of this to happen, that it wasn’t his fault and he’s trying to change it now, because it needs to, because it wasn’t working. Harry wants to say he’s sorry again. He would fall down to his knees and stay there until Zayn forgives him, until Zayn forgets and they can go back to how it was before. Harry doesn’t want to let Zayn go until Zayn promises he’ll stay.

A harsh, “Fuck,” slips from Zayn’s lips as he bites at Harry’s shoulder, his body convulsing and hand losing its speed. Harry whines with the sharp pain of Zayn’s teeth, closing his eyes and flicking his thumb over the head of Zayn’s cock as they both come, losing and finding themselves until they can barely stand.

Harry didn’t let himself wonder. There wasn’t anything he could think of that would smooth out the creases of his heart, the scars along his memories or wipe away his tears. Memories didn’t make him smile and plans for the future washed him with a cold sweat. No more I love you’s, no more soft fingers combing through his hair, stolen sips of coffee or cold feet pressing against his in the mornings. Harry never thought he’d get to kiss Zayn again. He never let himself wish to see his smile or hear his laugh. Because the thought alone extinguished his breath, and hope wasn’t something Harry could count on, like he was a dandelion caught up in the possibility of a sandstorm. Just the option of getting swept away with a single breathe of wind was enough for Harry to keep those thoughts at bay. The taste of Zayn’s kiss, the heat of his skin, the curve of his lips – Harry didn’t let himself remember for fear of it becoming the only thing he could think about. Harry never wanted to leave. He never wanted to stay stuck in that house.

They’re wrapped around each other underneath the covers, face to face as they kiss lazily. They push away sleep and they push away their worries. They don’t think about the unasked questions or much needed explanations. Harry doesn’t do anything except chase the taste of Zayn, focusing on Zayn’s soft and tired lips. He doesn’t think about regrets and Zayn doesn’t stop him, doesn’t make Harry leave the bed and their room and his life, like he should, like Harry thought he would.

Legs twisted, heads empty and their foreheads pressed together as they breathe each other’s air, they both fall asleep.

*

Harry wakes up before Zayn. His eyes open with a nearly audible pop, blinking once before he’s awake and all semblance of sleep is gone. He stretches his legs, slides his feet alongside Zayn’s and breathes out deeply. It isn’t Friday and it isn’t that time of the week when Harry can’t help but open his eyes when the clock ticks its way to seven in the morning. Harry settles his head back into the pillow and closes his eyes, because he’ll be damned if he won’t stay in bed until the last possible second.

Even as he pulls the duvet up to his eyes, Harry knows he won’t fall asleep again and he isn’t okay with it, not at all. But, it’s not so bad, because Zayn’s still asleep right in front of him, still snoring in the way he does – where it’s barely audible and it helps lull Harry back into calmness. It’s just like the sound that used to drift Harry back into slumber when sleeping came easy to him. Harry’s warm with Zayn’s arms wound tightly around him, keeping him close all throughout the night and his nose buried in his curls.

It’s happening too fast, but it feels too good for Harry to stop or hit pause and give Zayn an out. They should talk before anything else happens, before they go any further and Harry won’t be able to leave again, because Harry can’t let Zayn fall into him and let him think that this time, Harry won’t be there to catch him. Harry can’t hurt Zayn again, but he knows he won’t – that he never will again, because this might just be what Harry’s always wanted. This was written somewhere in the stars too.

They have a month. They have three weeks left and then they can talk about everything as well, Harry decides as he opens his eyes. During the month, he’ll tell Zayn everything he can bring himself to. After three weeks, Zayn won’t have to ask the questions to have them answered.

When they were seven and eight years old, Harry and Zayn didn’t share secrets – they were too young to have skeletons in their closets. Every word they said was unfiltered with childish innocence and joy, meaning nothing while bearing heavier weight than gold. Zayn announced he was Muslim and if Harry had known what that meant, he still wouldn’t have said anything. He shrugged it off and said he’s afraid of the dark, like it wasn’t his Achilles heel, because he thought they were exchanging interesting things about themselves – doing what friends do. The dark was looming and loud, sneaky and deafeningly silent – and Harry didn’t want anything to do with it. Aged eight, Zayn nodded and kept the little light in his room on at night from that day and until Harry didn’t need the light anymore, because he had Zayn to keep him safe. They weren’t secrets because it wasn’t something either of them thought to keep close – not when it came to each other.

Harry was eighteen, tall and already aware of his charm, but he still hadn’t outgrown his baby cheeks when Zayn was all sharp jaw and piercing eyes, skinny but not quite as tall. There still wasn’t anything they had to tell each other though, nothing they didn’t just say while they were lying in the back of Harry’s pickup, because that’s what best friends do. Zayn knew everything and Harry had already listened to anything Zayn had to say. No secrets. There wasn’t anything left to share that the other didn’t already know.

So Harry doesn’t know how to do this, to simultaneously exist with Zayn and these parts of himself that Zayn doesn’t have access to. Harry doesn’t know how he’ll do it, but he will – he knows he will.

After Harry’s thoughts are twisted upside down and turned around, and the sun is trying to slip through the thick curtains, he turns in Zayn’s arms. Zayn’s lips are in a slight pout, like he’s being put off in his dreams, but Harry knows it’s how his face molds when he’s asleep, his bottom lips jutting out. There’s a lone eyelash on Zayn’s cheek that Harry blows away with a gentle breath.

Zayn doesn’t usually wake up before noon and this past couple of days have had to been hard on him morning wise, but Harry’s sick of being the only one awake. He wonders how he should wake Zayn up, whether jumping on the bed or singing to him would be better when Zayn stirs a little, presses him face into the pillow and there’s only one thing going through Harry’s head. He wants to kiss him, so he does.

Zayn doesn’t move at first, when Harry presses a soft peck at the corner of his mouth, but as soon as Harry cups the side of his face and lingers with it, keeping his lips close to Zayn’s, Zayn hums and kisses him back. When Harry smiles, Zayn is rolling them over, laughing as he straddles Harry’s hips. His hair is tousledwith sleep and Zayn looks incredibly soft, like if Harry were to grip his hips a little tighter Zayn would break in half. It feels like they’ve been doing this for years and years, waking up with kisses and careful touches, rousing each other from sleep like there was no pause, no break. Zayn ruts his hips down as Harry presses his up and for how new it is, how he’s not used to it anymore – it makes Harry feel like coming home.

Harry pays for the motel as Zayn goes to the car. The monotonous guy with glasses is behind the counter again. Mumbling something about noisy guests, Harry doesn’t pay him much mind as he looks over the bills and hums in content. He hands over the money, waits to see if the guy has anything more boring to add, but once he looks at Harry expectantly, Harry simply nods and smiles before he turns and leaves. If his face is a mixture of that pleasant yet threatening smile he’s perfected over the years and it visibly unsettles the guy, no one has to know.

“I need coffee,” Zayn says as soon as Harry opens the car’s door. “I really, really need coffee.”

“You slept for what? Ten hours?”

“And?” Zayn raises a sharp eyebrow.

Harry wants to coo. Instead, he says, “Coffee it is.”

*

This time, Zayn goes to fetch them two cups while Harry waits in the car, opening compartment after compartment to find a CD. After five minutes of nothing, he’s ready to settle on _The Greatest Country Hits_ if that’s the only thing he finds. There’s nothing though. There isn’t even a piece of paper, a discarded receipt or a lone straw somewhere on the floor. Besides them and the two duffle bags, the car is absolutely spotless and eerily empty.

“Didn’t your grandpa use this car?” Harry is saying before Zayn even reaches for the door. “There’s not a single CD in here. I didn’t even find a ball of dust.”

“It’s _my_ car. Why would anyone else drive it?”

“Maybe because you don’t even know how?”

“Still doesn’t make it any less mine.”

Harry scowls. “Give me my coffee.”

“Oh, so now we’re gonna be pouty?”

Without answering, Harry takes a packet of sugar from Zayn’s lap and takes a cautious sip, sighing with the bitter taste.

“Why do you do that?” Zayn asks after a minute. He’s looking Harry right in the eye, but his voice is just curious. Harry has no idea what he’s talking about.

“What?”

Zayn chuckles. “You take one sugar, but you don’t put it in your coffee.”

“Well why do you put four in yours?” Harry counters, because he can, because he’s in the mood to be slightly annoying and because Zayn is smiling at him in that all-knowing way that Harry’s never liked.

“Why not?”

“I told you. Cavities, diabetes, all sorts of nasty diseases.”

Zayn shakes his head and takes a drink of his sugary concoction. “I have nothing to lose.”

Harry frowns, but doesn’t push. He doesn’t get it. Things change, yes, but four packets of sugar should be illegal when it comes down to it. It’s not even about it being unhealthy – although that’s a problem, sure – it’s just that Harry really didn’t expect Zayn’s coffee preference to change of all things. And four packets is a drastically unnecessary change.

“I asked the girl if there are any shelters nearby, you know, for animals. She said there’s one in the next town, about an hour away.”

“You wanna go?” Harry asks with a stupid grin, because Zayn’s cheeks started to heat up half way through his words, his head dipping lower and lower. Zayn is stubborn, he’s a seriously determined person who’d smash his head through a wall before he’d admit defeat. He’s sure in himself, except when he isn’t. When he’s not confident, he’s embarrassed or he’s ashamed, blushing and lowering his eyes in that innocent way that makes Harry want to kiss him. It’s always been fun to watch, the way his whole countenance shifts like a tide, coming and going. Harry used to step closer in those moments, crowd against him and press his nose against the heat of his cheeks with a smile so bright, it blinded both of them.

“Do you?” Zayn almost whispers.

“Are you kidding me?” Harry doesn’t wait for any further responses, just starts up the car and gets back on the road, looking forward to seeing Zayn coo over puppies.

Harry used to practically live on the road. His parents stopped to sleep in motels where they would stay for a couple of days at a time –  three months if it was Boulder. But mostly, they would drive around, stop at small towns and pretend like they were nomads or hippies from the seventies, drifting where the wind took them. They weren’t so much pretending, Harry came to realize, as it was actually true. They didn’t have a place to call home and Boulder City was the only stop that lasted longer than a week.

Being back on the road with Zayn feels more like a road-trip than hiding out, and Harry doesn’t actually mind how it reminds him of all those years ago, when the most comfortable place to sleep were the back seats of the car. He even remembers how he had his little pillow clutched to his chest, shoes hanging off the edge of the seat as he watched the clouds in the sky follow them around, tracing their paths with his finger pointed at the window as Anne and Des would sing along to the music on the radio.

The silence is licking its way up the side of Harry’s neck just as he parks the car in front of the shelter, shutting it off as he breathes out deeply, half ecstatic that he can step out of the car and _do_ something besides wait for Zayn to talk. It isn’t uncomfortable, driving in complete silence, but it is unnerving. Harry could feel Zayn’s unsaid words – too shy to come out – in the air, tangible but not quite there either.

Zayn decides to speak to the ladies at the counter. Harry stands a few feet away with his hands clasped behind his back as he doesn’t pay attention to whatever story Zayn is feeding them to let them see the animals. It’s long though, but as Harry stands there and watches without hearing, it looks like it’s working. The lady in the red top clutches at her chest as the one in the pink has her mouth covered with her hand and her eyes teary, like she’s about to sob right there and then. Harry wants to come closer to listen to Zayn’s fib, but stops himself, because if Zayn went and told them a fake cancer story, Harry might just burst out laughing. The things Zayn would do and say to get his hands on a puppy has always been astounding. Harry similes to himself, warm with the thought that some things really never change.

There are twenty dogs at the back and Zayn manages to coo over every single one. No dog goes un-petted and Harry pays way too much for the treats Zayn insists on giving them. It would be ridiculous if Zayn’s eyes didn’t shine brighter than on Christmas morning and Harry would absolutely refuse to pay if he didn’t splurge on some cat treats as well, for the litter of kittens the ladies keep at the front desk.

By the last dog, a lazy old boxer called Shia, Zayn loses all semblance of his precisely composed cool. He talks to Shia like it’s his firstborn child, giving her the most treats as he scratches over her tummy and Harry feels like crying on the spot. He’s clutching a kitten close to his chest, his chin resting against its head as his fingers bury in its fur and he’s standing right behind Zayn, who wouldn’t see him even if he tried. At first, he was tempted to take a dog on the road until he saw the kittens, but now, looking at how carefully Zayn runs his hands over Shia’s greying back, Harry wants to take Zayn home instead and never let him go.

Harry turns and goes back to the box of kittens to gather some composure for when Zayn comes back. They both thank the ladies at the front and they smile warmly back at them.

“Take care,” the one in red says. “Hope everything turns out okay for you.”

“Thank you,” Zayn says, giving them a little wave.

“Come back and visit any time.”

“We will,” Harry says this time.

Once back in the car, Harry can’t help himself, so after he buckles himself in, he asks a quiet, “What was that all about?”

“What?”

“What did you tell them to make them so worried?”

“I didn’t tell them anything.” Zayn defends.

Harry scoffs. “Come on, you almost made them cry back there.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He turns to face Zayn, suddenly set on getting to the bottom of this. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Harry,” Zayn says sternly, his face closed off. “Let it go.”

“No.” Harry crosses his arms. “Tell me.”

“Not now.”

And Harry should have known. Zayn cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. Harry hates when he does this, because it looks almost like a challenge, like Zayn’s saying _try me_ when he knows Harry won’t. If it was any other day and if Harry had any leverage left with Zayn, he’s push until Zayn told him, but he can’t, not now. And Zayn has never been so sure in the fact that Harry will have to make due with whatever Zayn is willing to tell him.

“Let’s just drive.”

And that’s exactly what they do.

*

Harry was too young to have remembered all the towns he saw with his parents. They’ve been from New York to California, driving up and down Route 66 like it was the only road they knew. For a time it almost was, as if they couldn’t leave it, turn off it and continue in a different direction. Harry remembers some people though, from when he was old enough to go for a walk without holding Anne’s hand and he found himself in cafés and diners, little souvenir shops and stores here and there. Harry still knows the exact color of Lily’s hair – a violent red that was enough to lure him in all those years ago, walking into a bakery with a dimpled smile. Lily was around fifty years old, a single mother of two wild teenagers as she called them. Harry didn’t see the kids, but he stayed in the bakery for hours, until the sky almost resembled her hair, with an added twist of blues and purples.

Harry would love to see Luke again, the hippie looking IT guy that doubled as a store owner, selling road signs and postcards, snow globes and beer openers all with the numbers _66_ engraved in bright, golden numerals. Luke had long brown hair bundled into a messy bun and Harry’s eye still widen as he thinks of all the computers behind the counter, wires all around Luke’s feet as he explained what he was doing to Harry. The gist of it was hacking, Harry remembers that much. He wouldn’t have taken Luke as a ‘bad guy’ at first glance, not with his azure blue eyes and chill attitude, but now Harry thinks that chill had something to do with Luke’s red rimmed eyes and the bitter smell hovering in his shop.

People usually don’t stop in every town they drive by. They mostly stop at the ones the brochures and maps highlight, the ones supposedly worth seeing. But every town has something, Harry’s learned, something worth stopping and stretching your legs. If it isn’t a stoner with more tech than _NASA_ , then it’s a homemade croissant and a lady with bright red hair that has crazy stories from when she was a teenager herself. There’s always something worth seeing, even if it isn’t screaming right at your face to stop. You can always find something to remember no matter where you are.

That’s what he and Zayn do now. They drive around in circles, round and round, back to the diner with the best apple pie and to new diners, with admittedly no pie, but good enough coffee that Zayn completely ruins with too much sugar. They drive around the outskirts of Vegas until they don’t know where they are anymore. They don’t need maps, because there are people in every town that direct them here or there. Harry asks about where they could eat, what they should see, if there’s anything they just can’t miss. And people lead them around, to small shops and smaller towns, one guy telling them to see the smallest town ever, which is just two houses about a mile apart. They stand smack down in the middle of them, half a mile away from each and smile, heads turned up to the sky as they listen to the wind kissing the dust all around them.

Harry’s always wanted to get lost with a friend and a car, in no hurry to get anywhere in particular. There’s no rush, nothing pushing them along as Harry drives and Zayn’s bare feet hang through the open window, because they have all the time in the world. They stop to eat a little something at a diner with all of four tables. It’s smaller than the dining room in Harry’s house, but it’s cozy and it feels like home, like you’re actually wanted there – like the owner waited for you to show up.

They eat the house special – eggs sunny side down with the side of too much turkey bacon – and they both drink orange juice, because Billy – the seventy-something year old cook promises it’s freshly squeezed. Zayn smiles at Harry before he takes the first bite, moaning as he nods and chews, and his smile almost reaches his ears.

Harry wants to kiss Zayn and share his smile, taste the juice right from his lips. They might just end up being friends after this, when he has to drive Zayn back to Santa Monica. Zayn could ask Harry to keep in touch, to not leave just yet or maybe even invite him out for lunch the next day. Harry may end up with a friend after this is over. A friend he wants to kiss sometimes. Someone to hold hands with, someone who will hold him during the night.

He doesn’t know what Zayn would do if he kisses him in the middle of this diner, just leans over and traces his tongue over Zayn’s bottom lip, but Harry’s never been brave. He’s never reached straight for what he wanted, so he risks holding Zayn’s hand under the table, a little apprehensive, a little shy. Zayn smiles and he doesn’t pull away. Friends, Harry thinks, and counts it as a small win.

“You’re good with people,” Zayn practically declares once they’re back in the car, searching for a motel sign anywhere along the road.

 “What makes you say that?” Harry frowns. He’s not an idiot. He knows Zayn’s never been much of a talker when it comes to strangers. Harry’s had to work hard to convince Zayn to come from behind Trisha’s legs to play, but Zayn’s lost the awkwardness of hovering and hiding. He talks when he has to, when people directly ask him questions and they always do. Everyone seems to be interested in Zayn – Harry can definitely relate.

 “I don’t know what to say most of the time, that’s why I don’t,” Zayn admits quietly. “I see how you shake people’s hands and smile at everything they say, and everyone loves you. I just stay at the sidelines.”

When Harry’s frown deepens, Zayn is quick to raise his hands.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying it’s never been easy for me. It’s not – it’s not easy. I don’t think it’s who I am.”

“Well, it really doesn’t matter who you think you are. If you want to talk to people, then you should. If you don’t, then don’t. It is easy.” Harry smiles and hopes it’s some kind of a reassurance that’ll come across to Zayn.

“I do, but… I don’t? Does that make sense?”

Harry bumps his fist against Zayn’s thigh. “Of course it does.”

“See,” Zayn points a finger at Harry, but it’s not an accusation. “You’re good with people.”

“You’re good at talking to me though.”

“Yeah, but you’re not people, are you?” Zayn smirks, his expression mischievous all around.

“Who am I then?”

Zayn smiles and musses his lips a little, like he’s trying to figure out how to put it. He ends up saying a simple yet confusing, “You’re Harry.”

“Okay? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayn shrugs. “You’re you.” Harry knows Zayn doesn’t mean it as anything more than what it is.

“And you’re you,” Harry returns. “I like you.”

“Now you’re just trying to get in my pants,” Zayn smirks.

“Um,” Harry says and smirks himself. “Been there, done that.”

“Oh.” Zayn nods and laughs, crosses his arms over his chest. “I see how it is. I hope that thought keeps you warm at night, because you’re sleeping on the couch from now on.”

Harry mock gasps. “What about my bad back?”

“You made your bed, now you have to sleep in it.”

Harry pouts as best as he knows how. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me,” Zayn teases.

“What if the room doesn’t have a couch?” Harry tries.

“Then you’re shit out of luck, my friend.”

The friend remark warms Harry heart and twists his gut at the same time, like he’s taking a deep breath five feet under water.

“That’s just unfair,” Harry say and swallows, his throat dry, but he thinks he manages to make it sound playful.

“Actually…” Zayn ducks his head down again, biting the inside of his cheek. “Do you want to just sleep in the car?”

“What, like on the backseats?”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods. “Like we used to. We could go buy something to drink and drive to the desert.”

Harry would rather sleep on the floor of a dirty motel room if he’s honest, but something’s telling him to say yes, because his heartbeat’s picking up and his foot’s slightly heavier on the gas as he thinks of squeezing next to Zayn on the backseats.

“Okay, yeah.” Harry’s agreeing before he could change his mind.

*

They stop at a gas station first. Harry fills the car while Zayn washes the dust off of the windows, laughing when he sprays Harry with the absolutely disgusting water, like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“I’m gonna get you back for that,” Harry promises as he takes the keys out of the ignition.

“I’d like to see that.” Zayn winks and turns around, starts for the entrance.

Harry has a remark ready on his tongue – more than one, actually – and he’s this close to spewing one right after the other when Zayn looks at him over the shoulder, tongue pressed against his teeth.

Everything in Harry switches to a loud buzz as static flashes in front of his eyes. It’s been so long since he’s seen that smile, the one Zayn keeps hidden up his sleeve, like he knows the power it has. Or exactly what it does to Harry. It floods over Zayn’s face like a wave, covering his features with joy and mirth, this pure happiness that hits Harry faster than lighting. Zayn’s just so happy that Harry smiles too, shoots him a wink in return that’s supposed to mean _Oh, you’ll see_ , which Zayn has no trouble understanding.

They drift towards the snack isles, where Zayn looks everything over twice before he starts grabbing bags after bags of chips, _Cheetos_ , _Haribo_ candy and twisters of pretty much every single color. Harry’s never been much of a candy man himself, but he thinks he could eat a gummy bear or two tonight. Zayn also picks _Mars_ bars and _Snickers_ that should last them for about a year.

“You sure you got enough food?”

“Hey.” Zayn looks at him sternly and Harry knows he’d point a finger at him too, if only his hands were free. “Don’t mock me. I’m gonna eat all of this.”

“Never doubted you,” Harry says through a laugh.

“Just go wait in the car.” Zayn nods towards the _Mustang_ and Harry does as he’s told, waiting until Zayn comes and dumps two plastic bags worth of snacks on the backseats.

“Really, what’s with all the food?” Harry asks when they’re back on the road, because it’s unnerving. Harry might not like candy all that much, but Zayn’s never been much of a snack eater either. The occasional chips, sure, but never this much shit food.

Zayn shrugs. “I’ve never binged on snacks. Now I kind of want to.”

“Oh, so this is part of your _everything_?”

“Yeah. We’ll eat until our stomachs hurt.”

“Why are you smiling? That doesn’t sound like something I want to do.”

“Of course it is. Who doesn’t want to do that?” Zayn asks as if it’s a rhetorical question.

“Me. I don’t want to vomit.”

“Too bad,” Zayn says with an even bigger smile. “Because I got us whiskey too.”

“Oh, so now we’re getting drunk?”

Zayn points to the right where there’s a side road leading to the desert. “What did you think we were gonna do?”

“I don’t know? Talk?”

Zayn scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“What?”

“I wanna drink and I want to eat two bags of gummy bears. You can talk to yourself if you want to.”

Harry looks over at Zayn. There he goes again, being so set in doing this, that Harry knows there’s nothing he could do to change his mind. It’s a plan Zayn made himself and as if he was there with Harry when Des banged it into his head, he’s not going to drift away from it. _You make a plan and you stick to it._ No matter if there’s an unbelievably high chance of vomiting, apparently, you eat junk food and you drink whiskey, because that’s what the plan says. Harry doesn’t like it, but he’s also not going to go against a plan – especially Zayn’s.

*

They’ve camped out in the desert more times than either can count. First, Harry did it with his parents. Blankets, small fires and with a lot of marshmallows on sticks, they used to sleep in the back of the pickup, Harry squeezed between Anne and Des while they told him stories about the lands far far away, that Harry now knows were their fantasies of living a normal lives. The fairytales were never about princes or frogs. They were about happy families, living together on a farm or in the city, trying to cope with the world as a unit. Harry loved those stories and he still does now, because even if he’s twenty-two, they’re all still fairytales about a land far, too far away.

The first time he took Zayn out to the desert for the night was when he was sixteen. It was the year he got his pickup and finally, the courage to make a move, to do something brave for the first time in his life. Zayn wanted to take a drive in Harry’s brand new old car, so Harry packed them a bag, took two heavy blankets from the Inn with Trisha’s permission – of course – and made it a whole thing. He didn’t tell Zayn where they were going, just that he should put on a jacket or two. By the time they were in the car, Harry didn’t know who was more nervous – Harry about how the night would unravel or Zayn, about where Harry was taking him.

Harry can still feel how his hands were shaking once he parked the pickup. His palms were clammy, but he didn’t want to start rubbing them against his jeans, because then Zayn would’ve known that he was as nervous as he’d ever been. It really did become a whole thing.

Harry went to Des to ask him for advice first and then reconsidered his choice when Des said to just go for it, damn the outcome. Anne, on the other hand, was visibly nervous too, because he was her only child and it might not seem like much, but having your very first kiss with your best friend was a bigger deal than Harry even thought to imagine. Anne said to be careful, to do it slowly even and Harry didn’t really understand that. He didn’t know if he was supposed to lean in slowly or to take the situation slow, and after him and Zayn were sitting in the back of the truck, face to face, he didn’t even remember what Anne’s advice was.

Not everyone is nervous for their first kiss. Sometimes, you don’t even know it’s going to happen and before you know it, you find yourself in a warm embrace with your lips pressed against someone else’s. But when it’s Harry, when you plan it and you’re hopeful and even your parents know about it – not to mention that you’re sixteen years old – it only adds to the tense pressure already there.

Harry can remember how it was with a soft smile now. His hands were still shaking as he cupped Zayn’s cheek first and tried to tell him with his eyes that he was going to lean in and kiss him, that it was about to happen. Zayn visibly swallowed and Harry closed his eyes, leaning in blindly and hoping – not for anything in particular, just hoping. He can remember how soft Zayn’s lips were and the breath Zayn lost as their tongues met. Harry’s confidence slipped as he moaned and then blushed because of it, but Zayn pressed closer and Harry really lost it then, twisting his fingers behind Zayn’s neck.

It’s not really much different now, as Harry parks the car in the middle of nowhere with more snacks and alcohol in the car than is healthy. To start with, the air around them is suddenly under incredible voltage, awkward as it gets, as they sit in the front, facing each other silently. Zayn breaks out the chips as quickly as he can and Harry starts pouring them whiskey in the two mugs Zayn thankfully remembered to buy.

Harry is twenty-two, but he’s never really done this. Getting drunk just wasn’t something he did throughout his teenage years, too occupied with doing a good job and spending his life with his parents, as if they weren’t able to survive without one another – and Harry was nearly convinced they couldn’t. But maybe he was wrong. Drinking aside, Harry’s never even considered having whiskey out of a mug with a _Minion_ pattern all around the sides. As he pours them what he deems is a good mix of whiskey and cola, he picks the one with a giant _Minion_ for himself and hands Zayn the one with about a hundred of them crowded on the porcelain.

“What’s with the _Minions_?” Harry asks before he takes a careful sip, trying to break the awkwardness that hasn’t been there for a long time.

Zayn laughs. “They’re just… funny, I guess.”

Harry’s reminded there’s a lot more to Zayn than his cool exterior and chiseled jaw. There’s a whole other person underlying what’s out in the open and what you can see with the naked eye. Zayn’s layered, complex and Harry doesn’t know how he ever even forgot that.

“Aren’t you adorable,” he still teases, because of course Harry does. He takes another sip, bigger this time and slightly wheezes with the burn.

 “Ha,” Zayn snorts. “Don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.”

Harry feels a blush coming on. “I’ve called you cute before.”

And if the atmosphere was electric before, it’s suffocating now, all of the air sucked straight out of the car with one single sentence that would be enough to hang an innocent man. The tension grows and grows, going from a blinding white to a stifling grey with each second that passes in silence, as Harry waits for Zayn’s response.

Zayn takes a tentative sip and Harry feels as if his lungs are flooding. “You really wanna talk about everything you used to do, but don’t anymore?” Zayn asks, his head tilting to the side.

“No, not really,” Harry chokes out.

“’Cause I’ve got a whole list,” Zayn still goes on. He takes another sip, but unlike Harry, his face contort with the taste of alcohol.

Harry shakes his head and feels like he won’t be able to stop. “Zayn.”

“No, no,” Zayn counters and takes another sip, this time more of a gulp. “Come on. I’ve had three years to think about this.”

Harry closes his eyes. He thought he was ready to face what he did, but as his hands wrap around the mug and he’s seriously considering fleeing instead of fighting, he’s realizing that he’s never going to be ready. Harry knew he hurt Zayn, because he isn’t stupid, but Zayn has no idea what Harry had to go through, why he didn’t come back or how he wasn’t able to leave his bed, little less drive for hours into the desert. Zayn has no idea, but as Harry opens his eyes and sees Zayn’s set face, lips and eyes in sharp, dangerous straight lines, Harry knows that’s also his own fault.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, because it becomes the only thing he can say right now, anything else a threat to his heart shattering all over again.

“Oh, thank you,” Zayn says with a painfully sarcastic smile. “I feel so much better now. It’s like nothing ever happened.”

Harry’s not sure, but he thinks the sound he makes is something close to a whimper. “I’m sorry,” he stutters out again. He wants to say more and make it right, explain everything, but he just keeps his hands around the mug and hopes he somehow vanishes in the air – along with the look on Zayn’s face.

“You know what, you’re right,” Zayn says then, sounding so morose that his words sink into Harry’s heart like soot. “Let’s not talk about this now.”

Harry nods. He wants to thank Zayn, but he refrains for fear of how that would go over. They both tip their mugs back and empty them in one go, suddenly thirsty for the burn. Harry quickly refills them and maybe pours more whiskey than he did the first time – but he knows they’ll both appreciate the stronger taste.

Zayn finds the bags of gummy bears and upturns it on the armrest between them, starts to meticulously sort them by color, like it’s some sort of a game. And Harry watches him wordlessly, following the movements of his slim fingers, as he tries to not think about anything – it’s not going great.

“The red ones are mine,” Zayn mumbles quietly around a gummy bear.

“I know.” Harry remembers how he never got to eat a single red gummy bear in all the times Trisha or Anne bought them a pack. It’s like they hold something magical, something Zayn doesn’t want to share when Harry’s pretty sure they just taste like strawberry.

Zayn hums in acknowledgement and continues to eat the candy, piece by piece. Harry reaches for a green one and pops it into his mouth, wondering what he could say without having to fear Zayn’s reaction.

“So what else do you want to do?”

Zayn chews as he cocks his head to the side, thinking. His eyes sparkle and he licks over his lips, half smirking. “I want to have a threesome.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “That’s on your list?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay?”

Zayn shrugs. “Do you? Want to have a threesome?”

“Um.” Harry thinks it would be a lot of work, but then the idea of it doesn’t sound that bad. He still says, “I don’t think so,” because he’s sure there’s only one pair of pants he wants to get in.

“Well…” Zayn looks over at Harry for a second. “What about with me?” Zayn asks with the mug at his lips, taking a couple sips.

 _That_ doesn’t sound bad at all. Harry refuses to blush as he looks straight into Zayn’s eyes and says a surprisingly steady, “Yeah.” He thinks of how it would feel to watch Zayn with someone else, or what Zayn would do if Harry’s hands were gripping someone else’s hips. He can’t help but shiver at the thought.

Before they empty the whole bottle of whiskey, Zayn insist on at least tasting every single item of food be got himself at the gas station. Harry would oppose the idea, but Zayn just looks so excited to eat all of the blue _M &M’s_ out of the bag that Harry can’t stop him. The gummy bears are gone, the _Cheetos_ are half eaten and all the chocolate bars are bitten off at one end or the other. Sufficed to say, Zayn won’t be eating lunch tomorrow.

With the last drops slipping smoothly down their throats, Harry doesn’t remember the last time he’s been so pleasantly drunk. Every word he says is more entertaining than the last, everything Zayn says is fucking fascinating and his tongue has a lot less room in his mouth than it usually does. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying by the time he plops the mug on the dashboard, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand.

“What do you mean?” Zayn asks, his face a perfect mix of confusion and joy. Harry wants to kiss him.

“I have no idea,” Harry laughs, feeling how his chest is warm and full – of what he’s not sure at the moment. “What was I saying?”

Zayn pinches his bottom lip. “Um, I don’t know?”

Harry feels seriously insulted that Zayn didn’t listen to him, but it only last a second before they both burst out laughing, Zayn’s mug falling somewhere under his seat with a loud thump. They’re crowded together, faces a bare inch apart and Harry can almost taste Zayn’s laughter – almost, until he leans in to close that last inch and he’s tasting it, finally, sighing with it.

Zayn tastes of sugar, sweet when Harry swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and bitter as their tongues twist, whiskey and strawberry heavy on Zayn’s breath. Harry cups the side of Zayn’s face and Zayn holds Harry by his arm as they kiss slowly, with the kind of patience that’s loving, comfortable and dangerous for how they get lost in it, consuming like a black hole. There’s no space, no time, just them and the desert, pressing ever closer as Zayn deepens the kiss and Harry moans.

Zayn makes this needy whine that runs right along Harry’s spine and it’s really all Harry needs to stars clinging to Zayn’s hips. Zayn starts climbing over the seats – just as needy and just as desperate – to get into Harry’s lap. The seats are small, not nearly big enough to fit Zayn’s knees as he straddles Harry, but the grip of Harry’s hands on his hips are strong enough to stable him.

“Want you,” Zayn breathes out, his voice a gravel, lips already bitten and red.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry rushes to say, biting at Zayn’s jaw, running just the tip of his tongue up his neck and kissing his lips again. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get enough of Zayn or if he’ll ever be able to make up for the three years he’s missed, but Harry can try – one kiss at a time.

He reaches for the duffle bag behind Zayn’s seat. Opening the thick zipper with one hand is a tougher task than Harry though, but he manages after a few seconds of searching for the small bottle of lube he knows should be somewhere at the bottom. Zayn’s insistently trying to take his t-shirt off in the meantime and doesn’t help make matters better, but Harry quickly straightens back up, a smirk curving along his lips.

Pressing the bottle against Zayn’s bare chest, Harry takes off his shirt much to Zayn’s pleasure if his fingers going to thumb against his nipples are any indication. Harry moans and his back arches, head almost hitting the roof of the car as Zayn twists his tongue around his chest, licking over one nipple while his hands roam over his back.

“Zayn.” Harry doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, but Zayn must understand him as he starts undoing Harry’s jeans, trying to get them off before Harry can even move to give him some room. They manage to tuck Harry pants down and they’re both panting by the end of it. Harry unbuttons Zayn’s jeans and slips them off his legs. Zayn raises his hips and Harry can slip his underwear down his thighs – low enough to free Zayn’s cock.

Harry can feel how his mouth waters, his tongue ready to lick the precome at the head of Zayn’s cock, but he refrains himself as he hears the bottle of lube clicking open. It has to be the sweetest sound Harry’s ever heard, but he quickly changes his mind – it’s Zayn gasping when he presses a finger against himself, pushing just the tip of his finger past the tight circle of muscle.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Harry says as he adds his own finger, tearing a moan from Zayn’s lungs. There’s probably a light burn to it, like a flare that goes right to Zayn’s chest. His whole face lights up with it when Harry adds another finger , and Harry revels in it. He pushes in as Zayn presses down, and Harry’s closer to reaching that spot that will have Zayn coming over both of them in seconds.

“Hurry up.” Zayn can barely talk as he wraps his hand around the base of Harry’s cock. Harry’s trying to calm the fire threatening to engulf his heart and his head and everything he’s ever been. If Harry can, he’s going to make this last. This has to count for something – it has to mean more than a simple relief, because as much as they both need to release everything that’s been on the verge of spilling already, this isn’t just a quick fuck. And they both know that. “Please, Harry.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Harry groans and presses his fingers deeper, as deep as Zayn can take and it doesn’t feel like much. Not until a searing white glow burns from the inside of his chest when Zayn’s fist tightens around him and Harry can feel his body stutter, having trouble understanding the feeling that’s coming from everywhere.

Zayn slicks Harry up as Harry tries his best to not lose it completely with his head tucked into Zayn’s neck. It’s not so patient anymore. There’s nothing sweet left on their tongues as Zayn raises his hips and Harry teases the tip of his cock at Zayn’s rim, biting his lip raw.

“Zayn,” is the last thing Harry manages to say as Zayn shifts his hips and sinks down. Harry’s his skin on fire with the tightness and his mouth slack.

Harry tries to not move his hips as Zayn starts off with a slow rhythm, the dirtiest push and pull, like he’s fucking Harry to the brink of his existence with each steady roll of his hips, until all Harry can think about is him. When there’s nothing left but Zayn and the feeling of being so close – too close to everything – Harry thinks he sees the stars again, more overwhelming than ever before, countless and vast and never as beautiful as right now. He can almost reach them when Zayn’s hands tighten on his shoulders to lift himself up before he drops his hips up, hard and fast.

Harry’s overtaken, he’s overwhelmed and he’s so close to jumping over the edge, diving headfirst into Zayn with every thrust, every time Zayn bites at his neck and chest. There’s no way of telling who’s moaning, who’ll have the most bruises in the morning or who’s going to lose it first.

Harry jerks Zayn off quick and tight, trying to come undone while holding himself off and keeping his fingers away from the head of Zayn’s cock, because he needs this to last, to mean something. Harry’s gasping at Zayn’s neck, his lips pressing wet kisses all along his skin in little licks of fire, as Zayn’s hips don’t falter. Zayn doesn’t stop and it’s like he’s pushing Harry now, jumping with him and yelling ‘Geronimo’ at the top of his lungs as they both fly.

Zayn flies first with a raspy, “I’m gonna– I’m coming,” falling from his lips as he clenches around Harry. He falls onto Harry’s lap once, twice, before he’s spilling over and over Harry’s stomach, hot and messy, but he doesn’t stop, still rolling his hips up and down until Harry’s trembling so hard, it’s all he knows.

He comes deep inside Zayn with a shaky groan falling from his lips. Zayn collapses against his chest as Harry trembles through it. His hands are shaking and his eyes are shut, and Zayn is nuzzling and still kissing at Harry’s neck, lazy and slow, waiting for Harry to come back so that he can kiss his lips and taste Harry’s breath. In that moment, Harry’s wrapped all around Zayn and there are stars dancing in front of his eyes, and Harry only wants to hold Zayn closer.

Satiated and sated, they cram together on the backseats, twisted and tangled, kissing lazily and pushing sleep away for a couple extra minutes. Harry closes his eyes as he feels Zayn drift off, pressing his lips against Zayn’s once more before his breathing evens out too. Harry knows his back is going to kill him tomorrow, but he can’t bring himself to care, because Zayn is here and it’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.

Zayn takes a deep breath and Harry can’t help but kiss his temple. They’re close again and they’re together, completely together in every sense of the word that Harry can think of. Right before he drifts away too, Harry hums a quiet, “I love you,” and the words kind of taste like he’s finally home again.


	4. A Thing for Bad Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well,” Harry says, half giving in and half giving up. “I want to be happy.”  
> “Happy? That’s it?”  
> “I don’t appreciate your tone there,” Harry can’t help to say, but he smiles too. “And yeah. I just want to be happy before I die, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: next update will be up in two weeks, because you know, college and stuff.

Before they say a single word, they’re back on the road the next morning. Harry woke up with a smile and Zayn groaning into his neck, which was as unpleasant as it was painful to get elbowed in his stomach not a second later. Zayn looks incredibly sour as the sun shines down on the car with no mercy.

Harry had to wash his mouth out with water to chase away the cotton taste, but his head is fine if only his legs are slightly heavy and his fingers tingle. Zayn though, has his eyes closed and his temple against the cool glass, silent as Harry makes sure to keep the drive smooth. He’s got a heavy frown and his lips are less in a pout and more in a twist of discomfort.

That’s why as soon as Harry started the car, he suggested they find a motel for a shower and a bed to sleep in. Zayn huffed in what Harry presumed was a not-completely-satisfied yes. They don’t drive for a long time. It takes them about fifteen minutes of almost dead-straight dirt to get back to the main road, and another fifteen for Harry to park in front of a small place with probably no more than ten rooms. It’ll do. It will have to with how uneasy Zayn looks.

Zayn waits by the car as Harry gets them a room. He thought Zayn would smoke since he only had one cigarette last night, but Zayn just stands there, leaning against the hood with his eyes closed and arms crossed. Harry wonders if he’s just not in the mood to smoke or if maybe the need to kill himself one burning inhale at a time passed. Bottom line is Harry just doesn’t want Zayn to smoke and he’s happy to see Zayn’s hands empty. Part of the reason is because it’s stupid and Zayn never smoked when he was younger, so why start now? But the other reason is because Harry doesn’t really like the taste of smoke on someone else’s lips – the lips he wants to kiss – and he wants Zayn to get that, to understand that and quit by himself, without Harry having to chastise him or convince him into doing it. Zayn isn’t smoking now and Harry’s happy because of it, but he also maybe wishes he would, because then Zayn wouldn’t look so out of place.

Harry doesn’t know how many more times he’s going to have to listen to the same regurgitated rules every motel has. _You break it, you pay for it_ – that one’s as clear as day. _You’ve got until noon the next day or we’re charging you for another day_ – the hour changes from place to place, but it’s just as useless to mention. _Paper-view isn’t free_ – Harry would like to find a place where it is.

But he listens diligently and he nodes when the young but tired looking girl pauses to see if he understood, because he thinks they appreciate it. Harry gets the key and walks back to the car, where if he’s not seeing things, Zayn is asleep as he stands on his own two feet.

“Come on,” Harry says, duffle bag in one hand and Zayn’s arm in the other. “Can you walk?”

Zayn doesn’t look like he wants to, but he can. He’s pale, the redness of his eyes suggesting it’s not just the alcohol that’s to blame for his state, but Harry’s sure all Zayn needs is a good warm bed to sleep in. And a long shower. So he tries to brace his hand under Zayn’s arm to hoists him up a little, but Zayn shoves him away. It’s not painful, not physically at least, and it leaves Harry dumbfounded. He doesn’t know why, but Zayn’s stomping away from him without even knowing which room is theirs. But after everything they’ve been through, Harry knows better than to try to figure it out.

Zayn mindlessly shucks his boots off next to the bed and stomps to the bathroom too, his eyes nearly closed and a deep frown etched on his forehead. He’s not swerving or asking for help – for company – so Harry doesn’t push. Instead, Harry makes the bed, checks to see if the sheets are clean enough to actually sleep on while he can hear the water running. He tucks the blanket under the duvet and piles two pillows for himself and one for Zayn on the left side of the bed, which is closer to the bathroom.

With the water still on, Harry steps into the bathroom and places clean underwear and a t-shirt on the sink, folding Zayn’s clothes from last night and putting them in the corner of the duffle bag.

Harry sits on the edge of the bed, he waits and he tries not to worry, which is  a lot harder than Harry thought. It’s a bit of a hangover, Harry’s sure of that, but he doesn’t know what else it could be – and he probably doesn’t want to know either.

The water shuts off and it takes only another minute before Zayn’s walking out of the bathroom, wearing only the boxers Harry left for him. Zayn doesn’t even look at Harry as he buries himself under the covers and aims his back at him.

It makes Harry feel sick. Clearly Zayn doesn’t want to talk about it or he’d do it already. And he clearly isn’t trying to think it over either, because Harry knows that Zayn talks when he thinks. He processes everything out loud and in the open, because that way Zayn can see the words and twist them around in front of his eyes instead of inside his head. It can’t be anything serious, Harry tells himself, because Zayn would be pacing and spewing word after word, but he’s just lying there, quiet.

Harry can feel a headache coming on as he sits there and watches Zayn over his shoulder. It’s like finding your old journal from when you were eleven years old. It looks familiar and the pages are still that pale blue from when you first cracked the spine, but you have no idea what’s hiding inside, lurking on the pages, because you can’t remember everything from that long ago. Harry flips through the pages, diligently skipping his eyes over the lines of words and looking for anything that jumps out at him. And then it hits him. Not like a freight train or lighting from the sky, but like a single lonesome drop of rain falling right on his forehead.

This is nothing Harry hasn’t seen before. Every time Zayn needed the quiet instead of the sound of their laughter, he’d turn his back on Harry, because that’s how Zayn showed that he needed some space. And every time, Harry would do what Zayn wanted. They’d lie on the hot parking lot with their pinkies twisted together. They’d sit on the bed with their backs against the headboard and their fingers intertwined, and they’d listen to the chatter of people that gathered in front of the motel for one of Trisha’s parties, because that’s what Zayn needed. Harry’s fingers always itched to move, but he’d stay quiet and wait – wait for Zayn to say something and burst through his serenity.

They’d lie in the back of the pickup, pressed close together and with Zayn’s hand in Harry curls, making a bigger mess of his hair then there already was. They’d listen to the absolute void of noise and watch as the stars scintillated and fell.

It’s not the same now, because Harry can’t feel Zayn as he wraps himself in the duvet and buries his face in pillow. He can’t touch him and for once, there’s nothing tangible connecting them as they balance each other out. It’s like reading through a journal and knowing it was you who wrote it, because it’s in your handwriting and they’re your words, but you have no memory to connect them to. You know they’re your words, but they don’t feel like yours.

So Harry goes to shower too and lets the water cascade and cocoon around him, because it washes away all his thoughts and fears, before he crawls into bed next to Zayn. Harry presses close to Zayn’s cold back and wraps his arms around his waist. Because Harry can’t let too much space get between them now that they’ve finally made their way back to each other. And or once, maybe Harry can be the one to keep the darkness at bay as Zayn sleeps.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks quietly. It’s only for a moment that the balance shifts askew, but Harry can’t close his eyes before he does.

“I’m just tired,” Zayn answers, and he sounds half broken and half asleep.

Harry breathes out with the sound of Zayn’s voice. He kisses the nape of Zayn’s neck and keeps his lips there as he whispers an almost silent “Sleep then.”

But Harry falls asleep long before Zayn does.

*

Harry decides to clean his gun. It’s been a long time since he’s had his hands around the metal barrel. It’s hard and cold, like a gun’s supposed to feel, a solid piece of steel in your hand that can be more than just a means to an end. It’s a persuasive device, a bluff and a bargaining chip all in one, because most people forget guns can be a lot more than just death sentences. You don’t even need to get close to the trigger. Like Des said, just the promise of looking down the barrel of a gun can be enough to speed up the proses. If you know, _really_ know how to use a gun, you won’t ever have to put bullets in the magazine.

Harry doesn’t have much else to do, because Zayn’s still sleeping, still completely gone to the world. Sleeping on an actual bed for half of the day did wonders for Harry’s spine, aligning back to normal and straightening the little cricks out. He feels better too and his head’s no longer pounding, but it’s still a mess of thoughts that Harry can’t seem to silence.

It’s the usual ones, and the worries that are closely connected to that bandage around Zayn’s left bicep. The wound’s healing nicely – it’s all closed up – but it’s still a little red and angry. Harry’s been wondering if he should turn his phone on to check the news for his name or Zayn’s. But he knows he’s more concerned with the fate of the two amateur thieves than his own. They had no idea what they were doing, but Harry’s a pro and there’s something telling him that his name will be left out of the mess he walked away from in that bank.

So in the hopes Harry stops getting himself sick over every little thing that passes through his head, he’s cleaning his gun. He doesn’t think about the past three years or the past weeks, because checking and rechecking if all the safeties are still smooth, blocks any other unwanted dust from entering his mind.

With how much practice Harry’s had in his life, it doesn’t take as long as Harry’s hoped to have the gun pieced back together, shiny and whistling, shining like it’s brand new. By the time Harry’s piled all the dirty clothes into a plastic bag, shaved and showered again, Zayn still hasn’t moved an inch.

He lies down next to Zayn and wraps his hands around him again, pressing his face against Zayn’s warm back. The slow and steady rise and fall of his chest tells Harry that Zayn’s not sleeping, just resting, just being completely numb to the world still, like he wants to dig a hole and bury himself deep under the ground. But Harry’s never been one to let things go easily.

“I’m going out,” Harry whispers, but he knows he’s not getting an answer. Zayn stays still and Harry kisses at his neck, below his ear and on his jaw, showing Zayn it is okay in the only way he knows how. “I won’t be long.”

Looking back at Zayn as he stands at the door of their room makes something twist Harry’s stomach even more, adding a new knot, a new worry, a deeper frown.

The town is small. Harry wishes it was bigger so he could go to every single shop and take even longer to go back to the room, where Zayn will be in the same state as he left him, but  it’ll do for now. It’ll have to. He goes to what looks like the only store with clothes, buying piles of simple black and white t-shirts and jeans that will fit Zayn better than his own, and enough underwear to last them years instead of weeks. It occupies his mind. It’s something else to think about for a good hour or so.

After he’s got his hands full of shopping bags, Harry goes to a diner. He wants to sit down and take a moment, pretend like he’s by himself and there’s no one he cares about lying in bed across the street, listless and barely breathing. Harry wonders how this trip would have been like if he had gone alone, if no one had offered to keep him company.

He doesn’t know if he’d be able to last this long. Harry could have been easily tempted to go back to Santa Monica, to take his house back and to carry on his life, while he kept everything as close to his heart as possible. Like he’s been doing for so long. Maybe he would have lost himself along the road, stuck in his car for hours on end with the same thoughts playing on repeat like a taunt, becoming the only thing he would know. Or maybe he’d have met someone else, picked up a hitchhiker or some pretty girl looking for an adventure and a way out of her small town.

No matter what though, Harry would’ve remember that he left with a plan and a steady _Let it go_ flashing in front of his eyes in bright neon letters, stuttering with static. It’s hard to forget something so bold and so big, does wonder if he’d be somewhere else right now if it wasn’t for Zayn.

Harry’s plan was to move forward. He left and now he’s here, wondering through a town he doesn’t know the name of. He’s not alone as he thought he was going to be – like he feels every time he closes his eyes – but this is good too. It’s better than he first thought it was going to be, because the idea of being stuck in a car with an angry Zayn still scares Harry half to death. But for the first time in years, Harry’s not alone and it feels like he’s moving forward – letting it go.

Zayn’s here and Harry’s moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other like a soldier marching in a straight line, except that Harry’s marching to the beat of his own drum.

It feels like he’s gone back in time, to when his life had a purpose and a meaning higher than waking up and blissfully surviving. The world is spinning past Harry and he’s living, he’s not dragging himself down anymore. He can finally breathe again and it feels god damn good.

It’s a small step for humankind, but it feels like it goes on for miles and miles for Harry. It’s like his feet are dangling in midair and Harry’s just flying on, watching as a blur of shapes dashes past his eyes. It feels just like that, when it’s not even close. He’s sold his house, the car and he’s left town. But if Harry were to add all those things together, they wouldn’t exactly amount to freedom or flying.

Harry can’t see that though, because it _feels_ like he’s flying, like he’s free and no one can stop him, when he’s actually standing completely still as the world spins madly on without him.

After he orders two lunch menus – curly fries and chicken nuggets – Harry takes two coffees to go as well. He pays for it all and heads back to the motel, feeling like time is slipping through his fingers as he walks with his head down and his thoughts at bay.

Just as he’s about to cross the road, Harry looks left and right to check there are no cars coming his way. There isn’t anyone on the road or the sidewalk but him and as he shakes his head, thinking this town looks exactly as how he feels, he spots a shiny sign from the corner of his eye.

There are golden letters on the building at the corner, glistening in the hot sun and reading _Bank_ in a bold font. They’re not flashing or neon, but they still demand all of his attention. It’s the last thing Harry needed and it’s the only thing left that hasn’t clouded over his mind and scratched at his heart. Harry stands there, glued to the sidewalk as his fingers itch, really itch and burn with a desperate need. He wants to grab his gun and have one last go, just for the sake of it, because he’s been doing so good that he deserves this. It can be Harry’s reward for doing so well and being so good.

But as Harry’s standing on the hot pavement, he hears the words _Bad guy_ echo from the distance in the same voice that Harry hasn’t heard all day. He shakes his head, looks at the bank one last time and crosses the road. Without even realizing, Harry takes his very first step and for a split second, the world slows down just enough for him to feel how his footprint settles somewhere deep in his heart.

*

Harry opens the curtains with a loud whoosh, squinting at the sudden attack of light that’s pouring into the room. He would do the laundry, clean the bathroom and vacuum the rugs if this wasn’t a rented room and people weren’t already hired to do so.

Harry feels good. He’s done moping around the room and waiting for Zayn to at least groan to show him a sign of life. Harry is over it. He’s going to bring Zayn back to life himself.

“I brought lunch,” Harry declares, loudly, annoyingly, taking the plastic containers out of the bags and spreading them on the bed. “Come on, get up.”

Harry knows he sounds impatient, but that’s because he is. Zayn didn’t tell him what’s wrong, so Harry has all the right in the world to pretend as if absolutely nothing is. He doesn’t want to move backwards, he’s tired of standing still and of being dragged in directions he never wanted to go, so he’s pushing everything forward, along with Zayn.

“Zayn, I’m serious.” Harry stands there, at the other end of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping silently against the rug, as he waits for Zayn to move, groan or do literally anything. “Either you eat by yourself or I’m force-feeding you.”

“Why are you so annoying?”

Harry’s eyes widen, but he smiles at his success. “Because you have to eat something, now come on,” he says and he doesn’t think he’s ever managed to do this. When Zayn gets in one of his moods, no one can drag him away, but maybe times are changing. Maybe something really hasn’t been working until now.

Harry sits down at the end of the bed and crosses his legs as he takes a cup of coffee and starts ripping sugar packets into it, mixing sweetness with the black liquid. Zayn heaves a heavy sigh before he actually shifts, but he does, finally, rolling around until he’s facing Harry, his eyes open and clearly still glazed with sleep.

“Here,” Harry says as he hands over the cup of coffee he personally wouldn’t even sniff. It’s one less thing they have in common now and Harry has officially decided he’s not bothered by it. It’s not easy to think of Zayn any differently as how he remembers him, the memory of his not-as-sharp cheekbones so fresh in his mind that Harry’s fingers thrum with their softness, but he’ll do it. Harry will twist the memory around until it fits this Zayn, the one who dumps four fucking sugars into his coffee.

Zayn takes a tentative sip and then sighs after he’s downed half the cup. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“What food did you get?” Zayn asks with a small satisfied smile, clapping his hands together in anticipation.

“Um…” Harry scratches at the back of his neck, feeling derailed. “Fries and nuggets?”

“Mm,” Zayn hums. “Sounds delicious.”

It is, Harry wants to say, but he’s stuck on Zayn’s smile, on how his eyes shine with his happy disposition. He doesn’t know where the listlessness went, why Zayn isn’t barely able to keep himself up anymore or how he’s not still grunting these heavy breaths, fed up and exasperated like he was not even fifteen minutes ago.

It eases Harry’s mind to know that Zayn’s okay again, that he’s _Zayn_ again, but it worries him too, deepens his frown and twits at his stomach again. He realizes there’s much more about Zayn he still has to find out. And that those last little details will determine how the memory of him will resonate in Harry.

They eat in compatible silence, moaning at their first bites and breathing heavily with their last. Every couple of bites, Zayn looks up at Harry from where he’s lying on his side, resembling those rich Roman emperors gorging themselves on grapes – and smiles either in thanks or because of something else, Harry doesn’t know. But Zayn smiles at him like there’s some secret to it, shy and young. Eating chicken nuggets with his fingers, Zayn looks younger, like he’s eighteen again, the Zayn that Harry knows better than the back of his hand.

“Your hair’s longer,” Zayn says, reaching for the ends of Harry’s curls. He tucks a strand behind his ear.

They ate as much as they could, throwing the empty containers off the bed, so Harry could stretch his legs too, sitting with his back against the headboard. Zayn shifted closer, leaning his head against Harry’s thigh and Harry didn’t mind. He doesn’t mind. They’re comfortable, full and happy, both smiling their own secret smiles now.

“Yeah, I haven’t cut it in a year, I think?”

“I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“It makes you look older. Kind of rugged,” Zayn snickers and Harry would object, but it’s so much better than the groans he’s had to listen to for the past day.

“Oh, I’m definitely not cutting then.”

“You shouldn’t.” Zayn looks honest, open even, his face saying everything his mouth isn’t. “I got an idea.”

“Shoot.”

Zayn is quick to raise an eyebrow, his hand moving to grip at his bicep and he doesn’t look like he’s impressed.

“Too soon?” Harry asks, grinning.

Zayn just shakes his head. “I wanna dye my hair.”

Harry nods, milling it over. “What color?”

“Gray.”

“What? Why gray?”

Zayn shrugs with one shoulder, looking down to where his fingers are busy with nothing. “Just thought it would look good.”

That’s not it, Harry knows, but he doesn’t push. “If you want to do that, we can.”

“Do you wanna do it now?”

“Now?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, jumping off the bed as he does, more excited than Harry’s seen him in – ever. “Let’s go.”

Zayn’s standing there, with his hands on his hips and this determined look on his face that he gets sometimes, when he’s trying to convince himself that whatever he’s thinking is a good idea. It’s how Zayn used to be the first couple of times he suggested they go for a drive, aiming for nonchalance and spontaneity, but actually coming across as nervous, sinking his teeth into his smile, as an invisible beat of sweat slipped down the side of his face. Harry doesn’t doubt it though – doesn’t question it.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

Harry gets rid of the food containers and makes the bed as Zayn sifts through the new clothes, settling on a black shirt with a red guitar pattern that Harry thought would look good on himself, but – Zayn doesn’t look half bad in it either. And then they’re walking to the only little convenient store in town that might have what they need.

The sun is merciless, beating down on the world with its full force. The pavement in front of them looks like it’s melting – silently crying for shadow and shade, and the heat rising into the air around them makes it even worse. There’s a young couple walking towards them, a girl and boy, both pressed close together. It makes Harry sweat just looking at their golden skin touching in this heat. They’re both laughing, their lips and eyes framed with joyful lines and they can’t be much older than sixteen.

To be young and in love, Harry thinks, as he looks over at Zayn, how he’s still jumping on the balls of his feet with excitement, laughing too. Not as young, but just as happy if not more, his eyes shining with something more than love.

The two teens press closer together as they pass them and Harry gives them a polite smile, a nod of his head that’s meant to say _good luck_ more than anything else. Zayn must notice, because he steps closer to Harry as well, keeps walking with the backs of their hands brushing until they stop at the crossroad right in front of the convenient store. They look left and right, left again, and as Harry steps off the sidewalk to cross the street, Zayn laces their fingers together, clasping Harry’s hand in his own.

 _Young and in love,_ Harry thinks again.

*

They did actually have the gray dye Zayn wanted. Zayn grabbed a bottle while Harry went to buy them water and snacks, some things he remembered Zayn liking the other night, like gummy bears and _Cheetos._ Zayn came to the counter with a box or dye and a bottle of bleach, since apparently, that’s the way you dye someone’s hair. Harry didn’t know.

They do it in the bathroom, because they both know that Harry’s more than inclined to ruin the sheets or the rug if given half the chance. Zayn takes his phone out of his pocket and puts a playlist on shuffle.

Music works just like smell does. Memories form in all kinds of way, but they imprint in your brain in different forms of sensory more often than not. The scent of a certain candle you always light when talking to someone on the phone can bring back the exact words – the reasons for your laughter, the image of you lying on your bed tangled in the sheets as you kept talking into the early hours – and the memory of that person. A perfume that reminds you of your first kiss, something sweet and innocent, fresh and too manly for someone only sixteen years old. The scent lingering on a sweater, on your sheets, on your skin and on the edge of your brain will always remind you of that person you share your first with. Them and only them.

The song that played when you had your first dance brings you to tears now, because not long after, you had your last dance to that same song. The melody is as light as a knife, as precise as an arrow aimed at your heart that’s flying with that first note. A song can make you laugh, reminisce or think of how you were stuck in traffic when it came on the radio and you took the chance for car-aoke, and now, you can’t listen to the song without singing along as loud as your heart desires.

Zayn hits play and as the first song starts with a simple guitar intro, it feels like someone pressed pause and Harry’s slowly sinking into the tiles. But Zayn sighs and leans back a little, sitting on the chair they put in front of the sink completely relaxed and unbothered. Harry doesn’t know what to do as he listens though, can’t hear anything else than the words _You’ve got a fast car, and I want a ticket to anywhere._

It’s a song they listened to every time they went for a pointless drive when they wanted to feel some freedom for an hour or two. Just to get away from everything. Zayn would sing along, quiet and shy, as Harry drove down to the lake or into the desert, around small towns and almost to Vegas. The song wasn’t theirs, at least not in a decided way, where either Harry or Zayn would pointedly choose it for themselves. It’s just something that Harry remembers now, as he’s standing with bleach and a brush in his gloved hands, ready to dye Zayn’s hair gray.

Harry tries to swallow down the lump that’s stuck in his dry throat as Zayn starts to hum the melody, quiet and still shy. He manages to stay on his feet as he dips the brush into the poisonously blue liquid, closing his eyes and hoping the song ends as quickly as possible.

The playlist is a mix of those old tunes that Harry and Zayn used to hear on Des’s CDs; Tracy Chapman, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Rolling Stones. And as Harry bleaches Zayn’s hair and then finally dyes it gray, he doesn’t know whether it reminds him more of his parents or of the summers he spent Zayn. Harry doesn’t know which is worse.

The gray turns out better than Harry was expecting actually. He didn’t know what he was doing – he still doesn’t – when he was covering strand after strand with bleach, so not all of Zayn’s hair got the same makeover. Not exactly. His roots are still the dark raven black as before, but most of it, as far as Harry can tell now that Zayn’s towel-dried his hair, is a shiny gray color.

It doesn’t make Zayn look older, as if the gray is appropriate for his age, but it does make him look edgier, cooler and maybe even better looking if it’s possible.

“This doesn’t look half bad,” Zayn remarks as he keeps running his hands through his damp strands, admiring his new look Harry supposes.

“It doesn’t.”

“I think I might keep it.”

“You should,” Harry agrees happily.

Zayn frowns then and stops fiddling with his hair. He stands upright and turns enough to shoot a look at Harry over his shoulder.

“You up for something else?” he asks, turning fully before he kisses Harry, shutting off both their thoughts for a second.

Harry hums against Zayn’s lips and keeps pressing kisses on the corners of Zayn’s mouth. “What?”

“I wanna get my nose pierced.”

Harry gets stuck in midair, his lips puckered and ready to kiss Zayn again as he leans back and frowns. “You do?”

“Yeah, like Trisha, you know?”

“Oh,” Harry nods. “Do you think she’ll like it?” Harry asks and he knows how doubtful he sounds.

Zayn bursts out with a huff of laughter. “I don’t think she’ll say anything.”

“Why not?”

“She stopped caring about these kinds of thing a long time ago, you know that.”

“Um…” Harry hates to be the bearer of bad news, so he pecks Zayn’s lips again before he says anything. “Trisha hates every single one of your tattoos.”

“What?” Zayn takes a step back. He looks genuinely shocked right now and Harry wishes he had a camera to immortalize the look on his face. “No she doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, but in that slow way where he’s also trying not to laugh. “She really does.”

“Take that back,” Zayn threatens, but it’s not very menacing. “She loves all of them.”

“Even the gun on your hip?”

“Okay, maybe not all of them, but she doesn’t hate them,” Zayn says and his voice pitches a little higher, like’s asking himself the question. “Does she really?”

“I’m afraid so,” Harry hums and steps closer to Zayn again, placing his hands on his hips. “I like them though.”

“Of course you do,” Zayn scoffs. “Mine make sense.”

“Heey. Don’t insult something you don’t understand.” Harry knows he’s pouting when he actually wants to scowl and give Zayn a taste of his own medicine, but it’s not half bad, because Zayn shakes his head and kisses him lightly. It’s the best way to make Harry smile and Zayn knows that.

“I love your tattoos, you know that. It makes you look like a badass.”

“You into bad boys now?

“Always been, baby,” Zayn says with a wiggle of his eyebrows and Harry nearly falls down to his knees with laughter.

“Then let’s do it.”

*

On the way back from the parlor from one town over, they decide to spend another day in this motel before they move forwards to some place new where neither has been to yet.

Zayn keeps touching the little silver dot now sitting neatly on his nose as Harry drives the car and tries to keep his eyes on the road. It was simple and easy, an ‘in and out’ type thing that took less time than the drive to the parlor in the first place. But Zayn can’t stop smiling and his fingers haven’t left his nose alone yet, so Harry decides then and there that it was more than worth it. Something that makes Zayn this giddy is worth it and if Zayn doesn’t want to tell Harry what’s going on, then Harry doesn’t need to know anything.

 “You look good.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks like he doesn’t already know, lowering the mirror in front of him to make sure.

“You look really hot,” Harry teases and wiggles his eyebrows this time for added effect as he enjoys some of that happiness himself.

Zayn doesn’t look impressed though. “You already got in my pants, Styles,” Zayn shoots back, simple as anything.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna get into them again.”

“Ha, good one.”

Harry smirks. “Don’t act like you don’t love it when I get into your pants.”

“Keep telling yourself that Haz,” Zayn says, quick as ever, throwing the nickname for Harry around like it doesn’t stop the world or pushes it off its axis with one quick syllable.

Harry relaxes his grip on the steering wheel before he’s able to speak again. “I’m just telling you the truth.”

Zayn turns to look at Harry with that smile on his lips again. “Thanks,” Zayn says honestly, flipping the mirror up as he leans back in the seat.

“Maybe I have a thing for bad boys too,” Harry teases then, because he can’t have Zayn sitting in the car all serious without that youthful smirk on his lips.

Zayn guffaws, but doesn’t entertain a witty reply, which is just as good. He relaxes further into the seat and only asks, “Wanna have a night in?” when they’re almost back to the motel.

“Yes, please.”

“Good.” Zayn nods, stifling a yawn.

*

“You almost got hit by a car.”

Harry nods, the memory so vivid he can still smell the tires burning. “Anne didn’t let me out of sight for weeks.”

“My mom would’ve killed me.”

“ _Anne_ almost killed _us_.”

“Wait a minute,” Zayn says affronted, his hand going straight to his chest as if Harry’s insulted him. “Why me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You were the one who kicked the ball over the fence.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you ran to the middle of the road to get it?”

“I think it is,” Harry agrees, nodding, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“Oh yeah, I’m the stupid one here.” Zayn’s eyes are narrow into slits, but his lips are curving up as well, his tone less accusing than he’d probably like.

“I wasn’t the one who spray-painted the whole town, though.” Harry raises his hands.

“Hey, I cleaned it up.” Zayn looks down and shakes his head, clearly disapproving his younger-self’s decisions. But then he does smile, bright as anything and Harry knows he’d do it again, tag every concrete surface with his initial – a twisted purple ‘z’ – or an over-the-top cartoon. “That was a bitch.”

“I did help,” Harry drawls.

“You’re kidding right? You _watched_ me rub off the paint for _five_ hours.”

“I was there for moral support?” Harry’s voice goes higher, riddled with doubt and pure mockery, but he can’t help himself, not with the image of Zayn sweating over his own graffiti while he lounged on the pavement next to him and enjoyed the view.

A whole minute goes by before Harry realizes that Zayn’s not said anything yet. It’s just that the memory, the whole thing – all of his summers, from when he was five till the last time he stepped into Boulder – it’s all so vivid and neon in color, flashing in front of his eyes in no particular order, but just like it’s supposed to. It’s a reel of everything Harry has that’s worth remembering, every single image with Zayn either in the background or right at the front, a close up of his face with everything else blurred away and forgotten.

As Harry brings his eyes up to see why Zayn hasn’t said anything, he realizes it’s all Zayn. Everything is Zayn. The first time Harry learned to swim morphs into Zayn sinking his ankles into the lake as Harry swam around them, careful not to splash him. All those times he felt like he was going to be stuck in the pickup truck with his parents forever brings back the night sky and warm blankets, Zayn pressed so close to him that Harry could feel Zayn’s heartbeat against his own chest. And Harry wouldn’t have minded staying there forever. Every time Harry thinks of the red and blue lights flashing in front of his house that are still on replay in his mind, Harry remembers how he couldn’t pick up the phone after he fell to his knees with a dull thump.

Looking at Zayn and seeing how he’s biting at the inside of his cheek, Harry thinks how all he has left are memories. These mental images he’s collected for twenty-two years, hoarding them one after the other, and precariously shelving them in a chronological order that never quite followed the concept of time. They’re never more than a thought away. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing that he collected them like stamps, because now all he has are the empty pictures of how it once was – a dangerous contrast to what his life is now. Sometimes, when Harry’s eyes are closed, when his breath is even and his heart is calm, Harry wants nothing more than to live those memories again and all he has to do is call the imagines from the dusty shelves. But sometimes, you need more than a memory to get by.

“We had fun, didn’t we?” Zayn finally says, breaking the silence.

Harry blinks himself back, shakes his head before he can say, “I loved coming to Boulder.”

Zayn laughs dryly, this tight sound that feels painful. “I hated it. I never thought I’d get to leave.”

“Why did you?” Harry asks, suddenly too curious not to ask.

“Because I wanted to get out and see what the rest of the world looked like,” Zayn answers, not even considering his words.

It makes Harry smile “And what do you think so far?”

“It’s pretty amazing,” Zayn says without taking his eyes off of Harry, but then he doesn’t sound as sure when he adds a quiet, “I like it so far.”

“That’s– that’s good.”

“Yeah. I just thought I’d really get to do something, you know?” Zayn looks defeated. There’s no other way to describe it.

“But you’re doing it, aren’t you? Everything you want.”

Zayn sighs, twists on the bed so his legs are crossed. “I guess, yeah.”

*

It’s so easy to fall into conversation with Zayn that Harry isn’t sure how it happened. One moment he was parking the car in front of their room and the next, Zayn is raiding the vending machine in the corner, retrieving packet after packet of saltines, one after the other until his arms are full of small bags. It was ridiculous, watching how Zayn tried to balance it all against his chest, so that he’d carry all of them to their room.

As Harry stood back and shook his head at Zayn, he wondered how many of those bags Zayn was planning to eat. He got the answer not a minute later, when Zayn, easy as anything, said, “Do you want to get something too?”

It’s just always been so easy to talk to Zayn, to listen to him wonder about anything and everything, Harry doesn’t know what he did for three years without him. They used to sit in the back of the pickup or on the parking lot at the back of the Inn, sometimes going on the roof or on a drive that would always lead them to the dock on Lakeshore road. There were times when Harry could hear the traffic from miles away, the sound of water muffling his thoughts as it circled around his feet. Other times though, he’s be laughing until he’d cry, loud and unabashed, keeping his eyes open so that he could watch how joy spilled from Zayn’s eyes too. They’d talk for hours, waiting for the sun to rise or for the river to overflow and take them away.

Once, when Harry’s head was cradled in Zayn’s lap, fingers tangling in his hair, Zayn said, “If you were a drug,” like it had been on his mind forever or like he just thought of it, dawning on him in that very second. “You’d be _Vicodin_.”

Harry laughed, but he didn’t know what to think and it wasn’t because he was half asleep when Zayn announced it like it was obvious. It wasn’t even because he was still high. Harry was completely sober, but maybe Zayn wasn’t as clear headed yet. “Isn’t that really cliché? And shouldn’t I be an upper or something?”

“Shut up.” Zayn hummed and ran a finger down Harry’s temple. “It’s not that you don’t make me happy.”

It wasn’t what Harry meant, but he wasn’t about to question it. “Good,” he said, smiling up at Zayn.

“But you numb. That’s what you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry had absolutely no idea what Zayn was saying.

Zayn hummed and said a slow, “You make the world a little quieter.” The way words slipped past Zayn’s lips told Harry that he was definitely still high. “Like, you make me happy, definitely, but you make me not feel everything all at once too. You take it away somehow, you know, numb everything until I can hear myself think again.”

“You’re giving me a lot of power,” Harry said, doubtfully.

But Zayn just laughed. “Don’t mean to burden you,” he said with his smile in his words as he cupped Harry’s cheek, running circles with his thumb.

Harry closed his eyes with Zayn’s admission settling itself into his skin, his words carved against his bones – a memory he’ll never let go of. He opened his eyes and smiled up at Zayn, matching the brightness in his eyes. Harry placed his hand behind Zayn’s neck, making him lean down a little, as he said, “I think I can live with that,” as sincerely as he ever could have, before he kissed him, slow and steady.

*

The sun has gone down hours ago. It was still bright and hot outside, the air sticking to their skin when Zayn yawned and threw himself down on the bed before Harry even had the chance to kick off his boots. It was easy to fall into a conversation after that, because Harry and Zayn always knew how to talk and fill in the silence until it got too loud and they needed a little break. They talk about where they’re going to go next and everywhere they’ve already been.

That’s when Harry remembers the lady that gasped like she’d seen a ghost in the middle of the gas station when it was only Harry leaning over Zayn to bite his shoulder and whisper in his ear.

Harry didn’t think about it. He just did it. Zayn was contemplating which candy to buy this time, like it was the most important decision of his life, and Harry felt like distracting him a little and getting some of that focused attention too, so he bit him. Nothing painful though, just a pinch with his teeth, and then the lady squawked, beyond herself to such an extent, Harry wanted to apologize for his behavior with his hands behind his back. But he didn’t, because of course he didn’t. He had the right to bite whoever he wanted to as long as he had consent, so instead of flipping her off and actually offending her, he grabbed Zayn by his shoulders and spun him around to kiss him. It was filthy, all tongue and teeth and hot breath, and not a second passed before the old lady was all but forgotten.

Now though, like there was any sort of lead to it or like he’s been prepared for this – waiting for a perfect opportunity – Zayn leans back against the headboard and twists his fingers, runs one of them over his eyebrow to let Harry know this is going to be serious.

“What would you do if you had a day left to live?”

Harry frowns. Out of everything, this wasn’t one of the questions he was expecting. “You mean if I die tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs out, letting out a burden along with the word. He really must’ve been preparing for this.

“Wow.” Harry leans back to gauge Zayn’s expression. “Straight to the good questions, huh?”

“Come one, I’m serious. What would you do?”

“Hmm.” It’s not exactly something Harry’s thought about. It isn’t exactly something anyone thinks about just because. You never really find yourself wondering about what you would do in some odd twenty-four hours you had left, because every day you’re hoping for more days, months, even years more of everything. No one wants to think about their last twenty-four hours, because you never really want to get to them. “I don’t know,” he waves a hand. “Come back to me.”

“Okay… then what do you want to do before you die?” Zayn’s face is perfectly composed, no lines of sudden laughter around his lips or eyes, no hints of mockery or a joke. His face is straight, because he means it. Zayn wants an answer and he wants it from Harry.

“What is this? What’s with the morbid questions?” Harry thinks for a second that Zayn is going to fall into a deep silence, but he doesn’t.

“Just answer the question.”

“Why?” Harry frowns and Zayn just sits there, hands in his lap and his eyes open wide, half expectant.

“What do you want to achieve in your life? Like, what’s the end goal?” Zayn further asks, as if he always gives when Harry pushes.

They both know it’s never been like that. Harry’s the open and ready one and Zayn’s closed off and safe, that’s why Harry doesn’t do this. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t prod and he does not push. He eases into in, gives every question an introduction speech and makes it important, like he needs to know or he’ll burst out in tears if nothing else. But Zayn doesn’t know how to do that, how to be gentle with his words – no matter how eloquent he actually is, which is a lot more than Harry – when the situation asks for it.

He dives into it head first, with his eyes closed and his nose pinches with his fingers, because he doesn’t want the water to get into his lungs, but he doesn’t give a warning before he pushes Harry off the cliff either.

As Harry’s more focused on the reason behind the question itself than the answer he’s supposed to give, Zayn does try to soften it with a quiet, “I’m just wondering,” that should make it better, but doesn’t in the end.

“Why?” Harry asks again, even if he knows he’s not going to get a better answer. Or the truth.

“I don’t know. I just think it’s important.”

Harry thinks he blinks, but he can’t be sure, as he stutters out another, “Why?”

Zayn scowls in the annoyed way he always does when something isn’t going the way he wants. It’s more of a petulant glare than anything else and Harry would laugh if he wasn’t so derailed. Because Harry knows what the end goal is. He knows what the goal has always been, ever since he had that way too serious talk with Anne that he’d rather not remember at the moment.

Harry knows what he wants – what he’s supposed to want – he just doesn’t know what _Zayn_ wants.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Zayn says, shrugging, and that’s when Harry realizes that Zayn doesn’t know exactly what he wants either.

Sitting opposite Zayn while they’re both clear-headed, more opened than they have been in a while and painfully sober, Harry knows he could torture the answers out of Zayn – that just because Zayn doesn’t know why he’s asking, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have some particular reasons driving the whole thing forward. Harry could do it, but he’s not going to. He isn’t going to push until Zayn has no other choice than to talk it out, because that’s not what they do do. Or at least Harry doesn’t think it is.

“Well,” Harry says, half giving in and half giving up. “I want to be happy.”

“Happy? That’s it?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone there,” Harry can’t help to say, but he smiles too. “And yeah. I just want to be happy before I die, I guess.”

“That’s…” Zayn pauses, runs his thumb over his eyebrow to smooth it out of a deep frown. “That’s simple.”

“And what do you want? Eternal glory? Fame?”

“Nah,” Zayn waves him off, but he looks down and his cheeks flare as he admits, quietly, “I guess I want to be in love.”

“In love? Okay, yeah, that’s good one.”

“Yeah…” Zayn shakes his head and that’s it, that’s all Harry needs to push him just a little, just a bit.

“Since we’re being all serious and everything, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Something’s going on that you’re not telling me.” It hits a nerve and Harry could see that from a mile away, but as he’s sitting a few inches away from Zayn, it’s that much more obvious. The way he frowns again, his eyes turning down, the bop of his Adams apple. “You know everything about me.” Harry laughs a little, trying to brighten the atmosphere even if he’s almost choking on air. “But I think there’s a lot I don’t know about you anymore. And I think it’s the reason you’re here, doing…” For the lack of a better word, Harry waves his hands around and says a decisive, “This.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zayn finally says with the kind of finality that should stop Harry, but it doesn’t, of course it doesn’t. Zayn may be stubborn, but he’s not the only one.

Harry snorts. “I’m not that stupid.”

“No, you’re not,” Zayn shakes his head.

“Then why can’t you just tell me?”

“Not now.” Zayn’s face is set but blotchy with blush, his fingers nervous and twitchy. He’s not denying it though, isn’t calling Harry crazy or insane for thinking something is wrong. He’s not making Harry feel any better.

“Okay Zayn,” Harry raises his hands in surrender before he stands up, because he doesn’t want to turn this into an unnecessary fight. “Don’t tell me.”

Zayn sighs and gives Harry a look that could kill. “Don’t be a hypocrite Harry. It doesn’t look good on you.”

Harry’s breath gets caught in a gasp. “What?” he screeches and Harry’s not proud of that, but he can’t help it. “What am I not telling you, huh?”

As those words leave his mouth, Harry regrets every single vowel and consonant. There’s always balance between them, because just as Zayn’s being quiet, Harry isn’t sobbing his story either. He hasn’t told Zayn anything about the past three years, nothing, not a single word, but then Zayn already knows what happened. Everyone knows what happened to Harry, so it’s not the same. And Harry will be damned if Zayn thinks he’s a hypocrite.

 “You know what?” Harry interrupts just as Zayn opens his mouth. “Forget it. I’m not doing this.”

“Oh, so now you don’t want to share?”

“No Zayn,” Harry shucks his t-shirt off before he takes off his jeans. “I don’t want to fight. I’m going to have a very long shower and then I’m going to sleep.”

Zayn shakes his head, disappointed somehow, but he doesn’t say anything else, which is just as well, Harry thinks. He turns around and struts to the bathroom.

Harry doesn’t care what Zayn thinks. They barely know each other anymore, they’re barely friends again and no matter how much they care about one another, it doesn’t matter in the end, because in a couple of weeks they’re gonna go their separate ways yet again.

*

Harry doesn’t know what wakes him. Whether it’s the cold, empty side of the bed or the not-so-gentle draft coming from the open door, or the noise of an angry engine coming from outside – it doesn’t matter either way, because it all wakes him up at once. There’s the tangible void that hasn’t been there for the last few days – which Harry’s almost gotten used to again – creeping its nails up his spine and raising the hair on the back of his neck. The draft wasn’t there when he lied in bed, exhausted and silent, his mouth in a straight tight line just so that he wouldn’t be tempted to say anything to Zayn.

It’s never happened before. Harry stormed off to the bathroom with a bull’s mindset of fight, fight, fight. He slammed the door shut and then tried – but failed – to turn the water on violently. It didn’t work and Harry almost broke the metallic handle. It didn’t matter though, because Harry’s not a hypocrite. He doesn’t claim to be anything he isn’t. Harry knows he’s a flake, that he’s unreliable at times and he knows he’s overly polite. There’s nothing to him that Harry doesn’t already know. So he might as well be labeled as self-aware as well, just to top off the list. But the one thing he is not, Harry’s sure, is a hypocrite. That’s why he huffed the anger out of him once he was standing underneath the water spray, because he was actively choosing to let it go.

Zayn probably didn’t mean it in the way Harry thought, which became obvious once the bathroom’s door opened with a quiet click and careful footsteps followed right to the shower’s glass door. Harry heard Zayn coming and he saw him standing there for almost a minute, before Zayn cleared his throat and slid the door to the side, but Harry didn’t stop him. No matter what he has to let go, he’s not going to stop himself when it comes to Zayn. Harry never could resist Zayn.

They stood with no more than an inch between the tips of their noses, water running down their faces and over Zayn’s parted lips, like a waterfall in the middle of the desert – so tempting, yet probably nothing more than a mirage. Separate, but together.

Pushing and giving have never been their fortes. It’s not something they’re good at, so it didn’t surprise either of them when Harry leaned in to press his lips against Zayn’s. It wasn’t heated or angry, no teeth or tongue, just soft presses of lips against their skin as they stood there with their hands around necks and waists and faces. They were letting it go together, asking each other to wait, and saying _not now_ with fewer words.

But Harry can’t think about how good it feels to have Zayn so close again, when he’s not in the bed next to him like he was when Harry drifted to sleep – safe and sound. Now, Harry can hear someone revving the engine right outside his room and the door is open, so he’s out of bed before the void can set into his bones again.

It’s Zayn in the _Mustang_ , because of course it is. Of course he decided that the middle of the night is the perfect time to take a drive or something, like it’s normal. Sometimes, Harry doesn’t know if Zayn thinks everything through. The gray hair’s amazing and the fact he stepped eve close to a pool is courageous, but his teeth are rooting and his lungs are worse off than they were before. _Not now_ , Harry tells himself as he steams his way to the car, more annoyed than he’s felt in a long, long, long time.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry didn’t even bother with getting dressed and neither did Zayn, since he’s sitting in the driver’s seat and gripping the steering wheel like he’s hanging on for dear life, in nothing but his underwear. It’s not exactly awful to look at, Harry’s aware of that, Zayn’s bare stomach isn’t something he should be focusing on right now. “What’s going on?”

“I just– I need–,” Zayn rushes to say, but the words get stuck in his throat and glued together. It’s like someone’s sewing his mouth shut as Zayn is trying to get his last words out and in the hopes of prolonging the stiches, Harry grabs Zayn’s forearm. He wants to plea Zayn with his eyes, tell him that there’s no rush, that he can take a couple of slow and steady breathes if he needs to. But then Zayn’s breath shudders instead. “I have to do something.”

 “Okay.” Harry’s very aware of the livewire in Zayn’s voice, the tremble in his voice jumpy and elastic, like he’s ready to propel up into the air without a parachute. He holds onto him, but doesn’t push. Harry feels like he’s talking to a frightened animal that’s ready to flee. That’s not even thinking about fighting “We can do everything you want.”

Zayn laughs humorlessly. “I can’t do everything.”

“Sure you can. You can do _some_ thing. A part of everything,” he appeases. Harry can hear Zayn’s desperation, that deep clueless primal need, he just doesn’t know what to do with it. Harry doesn’t know what Zayn’s planning on doing with it.

“That’s not good enough.” Zayn shakes his head and closes his eyes. “It won’t change anything.”

Harry couldn’t hold back, but he can’t anymore. “Change what?”

“I can’t do everything,” Zayn repeats, determined as always, but quieter than before, like he’s repeating himself for the millionth time. He lets got of the steering wheel and hunches back against the seat. It’s not so much giving up and he’s probably tired of saying it over and over again. Harry doesn’t get though, because Harry’s hearing it for the first time.

“Why do you have to? And who says you can’t?” It’s not exactly a push, it’s more of a nudge or a gentle poke, a very apprehensive finger at the shoulder that Harry hopes doesn’t jumpstart an avalanche again.

Zayn sighs and for a moment, Harry’s sure that the line is closed and he’s never getting the answer that’s been gnawing at him for what feels like an eternity. It’s the defeated type of exhale that you only release when you know there’s nothing left you have to lose. When all the cards have been dealt and you’re still stuck with a seven and a two. When you’re at the end of the rope and there’s nowhere else to climb, you exhale like Zayn does. And Harry’s so familiar with that exhale that he doesn’t know how to breathe without it anymore.

“I do,” Zayn says.

It ignites a simmer of a flame in Harry’s chest, the sound of Zayn’s broken halfhearted admission and it only fires Harry up for more questions that are piling behind his tongue one by one, but he can’t do it again. Harry’s not going to push someone when he knows it’s not going to work, because he’s never going to live the regret from the last time down.

“Okay.” Harry nods. He’s not feeling all that reassuring, but it doesn’t matter, as long as Zayn gets the message. Harry’s not going to push. He’s not going to let any of those questions spill. He’s not going to do anything that Zayn doesn’t want him to. “We’ve done a lot already, but we’ve got a week left, right?”

“Right,” Zayn breathes out.

“During the week, we’ll do as much as we still can. I know it doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s the best I can give you.”

Harry doesn’t think his words are coming out quite right, but then Zayn exhales again, this time with a tinge of relief and he smiles the smallest bit too. “Okay, yeah.”

It’s enough for now, Harry decides, as he pries his hands away from Zayn and he takes the keys out of the ignition. And even if it isn’t, if Harry didn’t want for this to end like it did – with both of them a little worse for wear then when they went to sleep – it’s going to have to be enough. Because Harry can’t push someone so far away, he’s only left with their memory. He can’t let Zayn become just a memory.

 “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

Zayn smiles again and gets out of the car with his worries a little more settled than they were before. Maybe the one thing that hasn’t changed is Harry’s ability to calm him down. It gives Harry another idea.

“Wait,” he starts, grabbing onto Zayn’s arm again to stop him. “I got an idea.”

Zayn frowns, but follows after Harry to where he leads them – the middle of the parking lot.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“Come on,” Harry urges, sitting down on the hot concrete, his legs straight out in front of him. He pats the spot next to him. “Sit.”

Zayn keeps his frown and sits down, skeptical, but it dawns on him in the same second when Harry pushes against his chest, making them both lie down. Harry places his hand on the ground next to his hip and makes sure to keep their pinkies touching, letting each other know they’re still there.

He can hear Zayn sigh, this deep gush of air leaving his lungs as he relaxes his shoulders and twists his pinky around Harry’s. It’s what they did when they needed a break, when Zayn had to balance out the noise with the quiet. This was both of them giving in, together but separately, each for themselves. It’s not the same parking lot, the space for room 103’s car that usually had the forms of two boys occupying it, but it’ll do for now, Harry thinks. It’s enough.

*

“You ready?”

Zayn squares his shoulders as a slow grin spreads over his face, slowly reaching from ear to ear and making him look dangerous, as if he’s up to something. It’s the same look Zayn got when he thought of spray painting the whole town one night, or the idea of Harry pulling his skateboard around with his pickup. Not the smartest, Harry admits, but still fun. At least until Trisha saw them and all hell broke lose. No one got majorly hurt in the end, except for Zayn’s ear as Trisha pulled him to the Inn while spewing everything Zayn no longer had privileges to do – like skateboard ever again in his life. Zayn was grounded for about a week before they tried it again, except they were smarter and went out to Lakeshore road.

Zayn has that same look in his eyes now as he stands with legs slightly parted. It’s that mischievous glint that Harry’s learned means Zayn’s confident in himself and what he’s doing, no matter how stupid it actually turns out to be. But Zayn’s a sight to see now, with the way the muscles in his stretched arms bulge out as he holds the gun steady, aiming at the cans Harry lined up for him.

They both woke up at eight in the morning, Harry waking Zayn up by twisting and turning around on the bed until he heard the telltale sound of Zayn being incredibly annoyed. But they both woke up with their minds set and several plans forming around them, everything they could do flying out of their mouths as they got dressed and brushed their teeth side by side. It’s like they clicked the reset button last night on the parking lot and now they’re doing this for real, because if Zayn wants to do everything, well then Harry has no other option then to do everything right along with him.

It was Zayn that said he wants to fire a gun under his breath, but it was Harry that almost couldn’t keep it in his pants when they drove out to the desert, drinking can after can of _Coca-Cola_ for Zayn’s targets.

Zayn used to come with Harry and Des when they went to practice their aim in the summer, but he never said anything about wanting to try it himself. Usually he’s sit on the hood of the car and watch Harry tick off the line of cans like a joke, _bang bang_ _bang_ , one after the other. Des wasn’t bad himself, but it was Harry that Zayn was watching, his eyes on Harry’s back until the last target was down in the dust. Zayn didn’t mind watching Harry practice if the nail marks down Harry’s back and the desperate rush later in the night were anything to go by.

Harry doesn’t know if Des would’ve even let Zayn try if he said anything, but now he doesn’t care, because Harry knows exactly what was going through Zayn’s head back then. Harry can feel a tingle run over his back where the scratch marks used to be, because as he looks at Zayn standing there with that look in his eyes, he can’t wait to make his own marks.

“Yeah,” Zayn says and nods his head, the gun still pointed at the targets. They managed to drink all of six cans on the ride here, which is about ten less than Harry usually had set up, but six will be enough for Zayn’s first time. One would’ve probably been one too many, actually. “Okay, now what?”

When Harry pulled out the gun and set it on the hood of the car, Zayn grabbed for it as quick as anything, looking it over in his hands. And as soon as the cans were lined up, Zayn started aiming, without Harry so much as uttering a single word. The gun isn’t even loaded.

“Now hand it over.”

“What? Why?” Zayn grumbles, literally grumbles like an old man ready to fight you with his cane.

“Because I need to load the gun first. Give it.”

Zayn does, but not without pouting to the point where his bottom lips almost falls off his face. Harry feels bad for no reason now, as if he stole some kid’s candy or something as equally as stupid.

“You’re gonna get it back,” Harry reassures as he pulls the loaded magazine out of the duffle bag. “Do you wanna hear this part or are you just interested in shooting it?”

Harry’s looking over his gun when Zayn says, “Teach me,” but his mouth still waters with the look he can imagine is on Zayn’s face.

“Okay.” Harry nods and waits a second before looking up at Zayn, who’s smirking like an idiot, happy with his little remark. “I have a Glock.”

“A Glock.” Zayn nods, but Harry can tell he has no idea what that means.

“Yeah, it’s a standard 9 mm gun.” Harry can’t help but look it over. He hasn’t held his gun in such a long time, but it’s still a perfect fit with the engraved _H_ looking back at him and saying a small hello. “This is the magazine,” Harry explains as he grabs for it, the bullets piled up to the top. “You slide it in and…” There’s that _click_ that makes Harry’s heart skip a beat.

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much.” Harry shrugs and tries to calm himself down. He isn’t even planning on shooting today, but now he maybe wants to. Just a little, just to empty one load. “Once you pull back the slide, you don’t point it at anything except the cans.”

“I’m not stupid, Harry.”

“It’s a gun, Zayn.”

“And I know what can happen if you don’t remember.”

For a second, Harry did actually forget that Zayn knows exactly what can happen if a gun is pointed at you. He knows how it feels when a trigger is pulled, knows the sound of a gun being fired better than Harry does. Harry winces internally as his eyes move over to Zayn’s arm where the wound is almost completely healed. It’s just a scar now, a ragged line of wild flesh that shines in the sun, and it’s enough for Harry to rethink handing his gun over to Zayn. But he resigns, because Zayn wants to do it and Harry can’t tell him no. “Just be careful,” he says finally as he hands over the gun.

“Promise.” Zayn smiles before he turns and steps into his previous position, looking like one of those agents from the TV with his legs in a slight crouch and his hands awkwardly around the gun. “Is this good?”

Harry holds back a snort as he shakes his head. He doesn’t tell Zayn, but Harry thinks ‘adorable’ would be the word to describe him right now. “Not exactly no,” he’s saying as he walks over to him. “First, move a little closer.”

Holding onto Zayn’s hips, he leads them five steps closer to the cans on the discarded metal fence. Wordlessly, Harry steps closer to Zayn so that he can reach his hands. He wraps his hands around Zayn’s and positions them to how Harry would hold the gun: the right hand around the handle and the left beneath the magazine. It’s a semiautomatic, which is a lot better than the revolver Harry had for his first time.

“Have a strong grip, but keep your arms lose,” Harry instructs and Zayn listens. It must the first that Zayn doesn’t challenge his words or tries to do it his own way. Zayn listens and does what Harry tells him to. “And don’t crouch. You’re not firing a shotgun. This has barely any kickback.”

Zayn nods and moves his legs. He still keeps them slightly parted, but straight, like he’s ready to shoot a gun for the first time. Harry is too. He runs his hands down Zayn’s sides reassuringly before he takes a step back. Harry can’t help it – he holds his breath until he hears the shot echo all around them, piercing the air until the bullet lands somewhere in the dust far away from the cans.

“This is so weird,” Zayn yells just before he fires again, missing another can. “I’m shooting a gun.”

Harry can feel the excitement radiating from Zayn all the way to where he’s perched against the hood. It doesn’t look like Zayn is aiming at all, but he’s laughing in between firing the gun and it’s enough for Harry. To know that it’s what Zayn’s wanted – probably for longer than he ever realized – and Harry’s the one to give it to him, to make Zayn look like he’s thirteen again and he’s so happy he can’t contain it, is more than enough for Harry.

With every shot, Harry’s chest tightens and expands at the same time, his heart beating without a rhythm in his chest as it steadily follows the _bang bang bang_ of his gun. When he Zayn first pulled the sensitive trigger, Harry decided to take it for a spin too, just a little, just so he can hit a can or six.

Harry can hear the hollow _clicks_ coming from the gun after Zayn empties it out. He keeps pulling the trigger, probably hoping that it’s gonna fire all by itself again. Harry chuckles to himself as he takes the bullets in his hands and walks back over to Zayn.

“Give it.”

Harry’s standing behind Zayn again, chest to back as he takes the magazine out of the gun and fills it, bullet by bullet until it’s nice and full, ready for another round. As Harry carefully hands he gun back to Zayn he doesn’t move like he did last time. He stands there and watches Zayn’s hands over his shoulder. Zayn grazes his thumb over the engraved _H_ for a second, before he holds the gun just like Harry showed him, taking his steady stance again.

Harry hovers behind Zayn and lets him take another shot by himself, before he can’t take it anymore. His fingers itch and his breathing is picking up, going ragged by each second that he waits. He presses himself even closer to Zayn as he runs his hands over Zayn’s arms. When he wraps his hands around Zayn’s, Harry can feel the weight of the gun, the cold metal against his fingers and he smiles to himself, because it’s so stupid, but it just makes him feel better. It’s like the smell of Anne’s flowery shampoo or the musky scent of Des’s cologne – the gun is a flash of memories fluttering in front of Harry’s eyes.

He hooks his chin over Zayn’s shoulder and closes one eye against the sun. As he moves the gun by a couple of inches to the left and slightly up, his hands tighten around Zayn’s. Harry could do this in his sleep. Three years have gone by since the last time Harry’s felt the grip of a gun around his fingers or caught a whiff of the smoke that twirls out of the barrel. It’s been ages since he’s gone practice shooting, but it feels like no time has passed since the last time at all – when Harry and Des worked on their speed rather than aim.

Harry can’t quite decide if those memories are good or not, but he’s damn sure that he doesn’t wants to think about that now, when he has Zayn trembling against his chest, waiting for something to happen. Harry can feel how Zayn’s holding his breath. He’s probably licking over his lips, since his thumb is too occupied for him to run it over his eyebrow. Zayn’s enjoying this and he’s not trying to hide it. So Harry focuses again, narrows his eye and just as he’s ready to pull the trigger, he whispers a soft, “Shoot.”

The gun kicks back minutely, the vibration of the flying bullet ricocheting from Zayn and through Harry, and before Harry has the chance to blink, the first can is flying to the ground.

“Shit,” Zayn breathes out, but Harry’s already moving their arms, lining them up with the next can.

“Shoot,” he whispers again and feels how Zayn tenses before he pulls the trigger, making another one fall.

It’s as if fire is dripping into Harry’s veins with each can that tips over. Harry moves their arms, aims and Zayn pulls the trigger. By the second to last can, Harry doesn’t need to tell Zayn when to do it. He wets his lips and grinds into Zayn a little as takes aim again. Half a second passes and the bullet’s flying, hitting the tin dead-on.

It’s a rush, a thrill that runs down Harry’s spine and makes him shiver. And if he feels like he’s about to jump out of his skin, Harry can’t imagine how Zayn feels right now. But he finds out fast enough, because Zayn turns in his arms without preamble, his eyes as wild as ever.

“That felt good,” Zayn whispers half his words as he links his arms behind Harry’s neck. “Really fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Harry smirks, clicking the safety on as his hands settle on Zayn’s hips.

Zayn nods and bites his lip. His eyes are closing, curving into crescents as Harry slides the tips of their noses together with the intimate space between them sparking, breathing and beating. They’re close, but Harry waits for Zayn to get closer, to lean in and touch his tongue to Harry’s top lip before they’re kissing, the rush of it melting on Harry’s lips. They’ve always been good at this – standing so close they eventually have nowhere else to go but each other, hot and open, kissing their breaths away.

By the end of the day, when the sun is setting a fire to the horizon, Zayn hits a can all by himself with Harry standing right next to him. “Take it slow, there’s no hurry. Close an eye if it helps. Just aim, breathe and shoot,” Harry says over and over, keeping his voice in that calm soothing voice that’s always put people at ease.

And Zayn did it. He aimed, took a deep breath and pulled the trigger all by himself, without Harry’s hands getting in the way. Zayn was so excited, Harry couldn’t look anywhere else but his wide and excited smile, his tongue pressed up against his teeth, nose scrunched up and eyes in narrow slits. Zayn looked so young, Harry had to shake his head to chase the memories away.

That’s the end of it though, because Zayn empties all the ammo Harry has on him. But it’s time to go anyway, to find another nameless motel and bleached white sheets for them to crash into. They have less than a week now and Harry doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about it. He wishes he’d have more time to figure it out, but Harry just think _Not now_ , and gets into the car.

*

The night he found Zayn in the car clutching the steering wheel like his life depending on it becomes the catalyst that jumpstarts their list of _everything_ and keeps them going. They’re on a roll, like stones avalanching down a hill, checking into motels and breaking onto rooftops because Harry wants them to see the sunrise.

That night when Zayn’s knees can’t keep still from shooting at cans and watching them tip over, they end up hitting the first motel they find. It’s old, broken down in that timeless sort of way where the owner’s aged along with the once-white wallpaper that’s peeling off at the corners now. It’s homey. There are flower patterns on flower patterns, some big and bright, gaudy and too loud for Harry’s eyes, and other’s remind him of old ladies and their cardigans.

The ruby neon _motel_ sign on the parking lot outside keeps flashing through the curtains that Zayn pulled closed as soon as he stepped into the room. They’re at ground level again, in the smallest room they’ve had since the start, but it’s probably going to end up being Harry’s favorite. There’s just something about the place that make him feel like home.

They’ve established a routine these past couple of weeks. One of them goes to take a shower while the other makes the bed before they both end up standing underneath the hot water with their heads low and their fingers busy. They climb on the bed and either sleep or talk, their pillows squishing their cheeks if Zayn doesn’t straddle Harry’s bare hips. It’s a ritual that’s sunk somewhere deep into Harry and the only one he doesn’t even know is even there as he starts taking off his sweaty t-shirt to jump into the shower first.

Harry’s mind is already walking towards the bathroom when warm hands splay against his stomach. He looks down and smiles at the chunky rings on Zayn’s fingers. There’s a bright red eye and one with turquoise stones that Harry might have noticed looks a lot like the one he has too. The intricate patterns on Zayn’s hand wraps around one of his wrists as smoke does around the other, slipping out of the lips Harry doesn’t recognize.

Harry leans back because it’s what he’s always done and he still can’t help it. Zayn’s sweaty too, from spending all day in the scorching sun, but as Harry leans his head back against his shoulder, he thinks they should take the shower after, when they’re spent and even sweatier, wet from the heat and their tongues.

They kiss like that for a while, lips slow and time on their hands as they keep a strong grip on each other, until Harry’s neck starts to ache with the stretch and the angle. He straightens up and turns around in Zayn’s arms. The look Zayn has reminds Harry of the night sky, dark and deep with countless flecks splattered around carelessly, while underlying something dangerous, something unattainable sparking alongside it. Harry keeps their eyes locked as he walks them backwards to the bed until they’re both falling on top of the bleached white sheets.

They’re all limbs and lips, ripping their clothes off with their teeth if it means they’ll get rid of them quicker. Before Harry has the chance to take a breath, Zayn is straddling him and rolling his hips against his dick in the filthiest eights Harry’s even felt. His hands are tight against Zayn’s ribs, but Zayn keeps going, keeps moving on top of Harry, leaning down to lick into his mouth before he’s pulling on Harry’s hair to make him moan.

Harry always stumbles and manages to bump into just about everything, his hips permanently blue from all the tables and door handles, but Zayn has this collected way of moving. His control over his body is something Harry’s been envious of for more than a couple of years. Zayn struts around, each step more certain than the other and he never bumps into anything unintentionally. Zayn know how to move.

He extends his legs and braces his weight on his arms as he slides down the length of Harry’s body, as smooth as ever. Licking his way over Harry’s chest, he sinks his teeth into Harry’s nipple, running his tongue flat against it until it hardens and Harry forgets his own name. Settling between Harry’s legs, Zayn runs his hands up Harry’s thighs, nails digging into the soft skin there.

“You’re so beautiful,” Zayn says, but Harry doesn’t think he’s meant to hear it, not with the way Zayn’s eyes wander over the expanse of his chest, as if he’s looking for a spot to sink his teeth in and bite. Harry blinks and Zayn’s eyes are locked with his again, a small smile stretching his lips. “I missed you,” Zayn whispers this time, no longer as smooth.

Harry doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry, because the look on Zayn’s face is just about everything Harry’s ever wanted. But Harry decides to smile too, lifting his leg to run his foot along Zayn’s thigh. “I missed you too,” Harry says, and it takes more effort to admit that than Harry thought it would, but once the words are out, he can feel how the _Not Now_ changes into a small _Soon_ instead.

All it takes for Harry to go from a quiet serenity he hasn’t felt in years to about an inch of his life is Zayn kissing the inside of his thigh, right where it meets his hip while keeping his eyes on Harry’s. Harry’s legs shift on their own accord, spreading further apart as he raises his hips impatiently, and sweat’s already gathering on his forehead.

A moan rips from Harry’s lips as Zayn swallows him down to the hilt. Zayn’s mouth is so warm Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever want to move again. He makes sure to keep his hips as still as he can as Zayn licks his way to the head of his cock. But Zayn keeps his lips there and his tongue flat as he wraps a hand around his base, moving it up and down ever so slightly. Zany’s grip is lose and his mouth is sloppy, and it’s everything Harry’s ever wanted gathered in that very moment as he writhes on the bed. Zayn opens his eyes and Harry has to pray he doesn’t come right then and there, with Zayn working him over so slowly it’s torturously perfect.

As Zayn swallows him down again and again, Harry shifts his legs so that his ankles cross over Zayn’s back, pushing him down a little to feel how the tip of his cock touches the back of Zayn’s throat. There’s too much sensation for Harry to focus on one thing in particular, but the overwhelming feeling of everything all at once isn’t much better for his life expectancy either.

Zayn’s a tease and they both know it, except that now, with Zayn’s tongue twisting around the length of Harry’s leaking cock, Harry knows he can’t take much more. He can’t take anything else if he doesn’t want to come. And he really doesn’t want to come yet, so he untangles his legs and pulls Zayn up with a labored breath and a voice screaming in his head for more more more.

Zayn stays seated on Harry’s hips as he sinks down on Harry’s fingers. It’s the golden opportunity for Harry to tease back, to make his marks on Zayn’s chest as he adds a second finger, but he doesn’t, because his thoughts are clouded over, like icing he wouldn’t want to lick away from his fingers. Zayn keeps rolling his hips and Harry keeps twisting his wrist, pushing and pulling and scissoring his fingers before he adds another one and hears Zayn hiss.

“God, you’re so tight,” Harry mouths against Zayn’s chest. Harry would be lying if he said he doesn’t love when Zayn uses him like this, to tare himself apart as he holds on to Harry’s shoulders, gripping harder than that steering wheel. “You ready?” he asks as he smirks, pushing hard and fast to reach Zayn’s spot that makes him tremble and whine, loud and uncontrolled, just like Harry wants.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Zayn manages to string together as Harry rolls a condom over himself, keeping his hand tight around the base.

“You sure?”

“Harry,” Zayn scowls. “If you don’t fuck me right now…”

It’s an empty threat, Harry knows, but he can’t get out of his skin even if it’s on fire right now. He teases the tip around Zayn’s rim to see how Zayn’s eyes go wide and expectant. “You’ll do what?”

Harry smirks at himself and wonders what Zayn will do, where he’ll move his piece, if it’ll be an empty pawn or a deadly queen. Even when they were young and awkward, not quite sure what they should do or if there were any lines they didn’t want to cross, Zayn and Harry knew how to have fun. They pushed and pulled, teased each other until one of them would end up beginning and making promises they never meant to keep.

Harry remembers their first time in that moment, when Zayn stares him down with his most venomous look. He doesn’t think of the awkwardness or the excessive amount of lube dripping down his hand while Zayn kept wincing in more pain than pleasure. Harry remembers the moment they laughed onto each other’s lips after they both came, hot and all over each other, because they were young and against the world. And it was fun above everything else. They might not always know how to be with each other, but Zayn and Harry always knew how to have fun.

Zayn doesn’t end up thinking it over for a long time though, because he just starts sinking down onto Harry without preamble, sighing as he sits on Harry’s hips again, full and content. Zayn throws his head back, the muscles in his neck and torso tense, almost vibrating and Harry doesn’t know what he wants anymore – to soothe Zayn and run his hands all over the expanse of sweaty skin presented to him or roll his hips up to start chasing their release.

Harry could do both, he knows, but he grabs Zayn’s sides and pulls him down to kiss him instead. They’re chest to chest again, Zayn lifting his hips up minutely to get used to the fullness of it while Harry mouths at his neck, the hinge of his jaw, the pulse at his neck. Their lips finally meet and Harry takes it as a green light, a checkered flag waving right in front of his eyes telling him he’s across the finish line. He runs his hands down Zayn’s back, following the curve from his broad shoulders and down to his slim hips, sinking his nails just a little and reveling in Zayn’s whines, the way his whole body stutters with it.

They fuck like that, with Harry holding on to Zayn’s pert ass and Zayn huffing out a deep breath every time Harry puts his all into a thrust. They’re pressed close together, so Harry can mouth at Zayn’s neck, can lick up the line of sweat on his shoulder and muffle his groans every time Zayn clenches tight around him. They get lost in the sound of skin slapping against skin, all wet and wild, like they’re seventeen again and they have to be careful to stay quiet. But they never managed it and they don’t stay quiet now either. They always get lost in each other, in the taste and the heat of it, the feeling of taking slow measured steps towards the edge of a cliff until they’re both running straight for it, hand in hand and their faces pointed up to the sun.

“Oh god, Harry,” Zayn says, his voice breaking as he starts pushing his hips down, meeting Harry’s – his steps speeding up like he’s almost ready to run. “I’m close, I’m close.”

Harry hums against Zayn’s skin, bites a mark somewhere blindly and tries to keep his rhythm, to keep thrusting his hips up and up and up. “Yeah?” Harry flies past the moment of no return as Zayn starts nodding above him.

He bends both knees and changes the angle a little, just by an inch or so, and it has Zayn screaming, “There, there, right fucking there,” above him. Harry’s quick to grab for Zayn’s dick, just to hold it tightly until he hears how Zayn’s breathing shifts from ragged to desperate.

As he starts moving his hands in a tight grip, Harry has a first row seat to see Zayn’s chest tense and his hands ball up into fists in the sheets. Zayn’s eyes are shut closed until Harry picks up his rhythm, going faster and chasing it right alongside him, hand in hand, faces pointing up.

Zayn’s the first to come, a broken sob spilling from his lips as he comes all over Harry’s stomach, almost collapsing on top of Harry. But Harry follows right after as Zayn clenches around him, hot and tight until he’s spilling over as well, burring his face in Zayn’s neck.

Harry just focuses on his breathing as he’s lying there, tries to breathe in and out instead of an erratic inhale after an erratic inhale. Closing his eyes and resting, Harry can feel how his sweaty skin is cooling off, his stomach sticky and uncomfortable, but he just lies there and breathes with Zayn’s weight on top of his chest. Even with the added burden, Harry’s breath still comes easy as anything, like he’s finally able to work his lungs after so long.

With Zayn moving his lips all over his skin, Harry thinks he’s finally letting go. After all this time, he knows it’s time to finally let it all go.


	5. New Reds and Brighter Yellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey.” Harry hears from behind Yaser’s back and the sound of it makes every knot untangle in his stomach, every rope tied around his neck go lose and float away like they were never there to begin with. “You came.”

For a second, Harry thinks there’s no way he’s going to wake Zayn up. It’s barely five in the morning, and Zayn’s never been awake so early from this side of the day. The sky is still a pitch black outside, but the _Motel_ sign flashing and stuttering didn’t let Harry close his eyes for a restful sleep all night, so he let himself be awake. Drifting with his thoughts, he laid awake for most of the night, not thinking of anything in particular.

Harry had to learn it the hard way, but he knows now that if you don’t feel like sleeping, then you shouldn’t force it. You shouldn’t make yourself close your eyes, because if something is keeping you up, it’s for a good reason more times than not. That’s half the reason why Harry finds himself hovering over Zayn on his arms and knees, going over the best and most efficient way to wake him up.

They spent the whole day in bed yesterday, lounging and fucking, sweating through the sheets until Zayn had to go ask the owner for a change, which was completely useless because the new sheets had a nice come stain right smack down in the middle of them not half an hour later. And a panting Harry wrapped around them, nearly ready for another round.

They didn’t talk much, not at all when it comes down to it, not about anything important anyway, but Harry didn’t care, because he was in bed all day, fucking and consequently fighting, because Zayn cheated in poker and Harry wouldn’t have it. He made Zayn come twice as punishment.

They didn’t move outside of the room much, except to grab the sheets and the food from the vending machines right on the other side of the wall, but Zayn’s still sleeping like a log. It’s a superpower, Harry decides while he listens a lightly snoring Zayn.

He’s been trying to figure out how to do it, if he even can rouse Zayn from his slumber and if he has the courage to follow through with whatever he decides. But Harry’s been getting sidetracked. At first, it was with Zayn’s pouty lips. Harry pressed his finger lightly against the curves, naïvely thinking that Zayn would wake up in a panic or at least swat him away and complain, creating a window for Harry to jump through and wake him up properly. It didn’t work, of course, because Zayn isn’t like Harry, and once he’s asleep, nothing can disturb him. Harry thought about jumping on the bed, but he’d feel bad if Zayn got charged with murder because of it.

Then he only half considered sliding down Zayn’s body to wake him up with a nice and wet blowjob. It would work, Harry is more than sure, but they wouldn’t move away from the bed all day again and that was counterproductive with his plan.

So Harry really has only two options left: drenching Zayn with a bucket of ice cold water or shaking Zayn a little and hope it’s enough. Though the bucket of water is foolproof, it would probably again lead to Zayn being put into handcuffs – which Harry wouldn’t be alive to see and that’d be a shame – Harry relents his musings and checks the time again. It’s five sharp. The digital alarm clock on the nightstand is telling Harry to hurry the fuck up so he readies himself for all possible outcomes before he presses himself even closer to Zayn’s sleeping form.

“Zaaayn,” Harry drawls maybe too quietly, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid. Zayn’s never appreciated being woken up – at any time of the day – so Harry’s going in blind right now and simply hoping for the best. “Zayn,” he says louder, and he gets a groan this time.

“Wakey, wakey.” Harry chuckles humorously, because his hands are clammy and his heart is about to beat its way out of his chest. He’s more nervous than he’d like. He puts his hand on Zayn’s check and runs his thumb over Zayn’s top lip. “It’s time to wake up.”

Zayn’s nose scrunches up, but he presses into Harry’s hand, sighing as if Harry will leave him alone now.

“Zayn,” Harry whispers an inch away from Zayn’s lips, their eyelashes tangling together. “Zayn.”

“Mm.”

“You need to wake up.”

Zayn halfheartedly clears his throat. “What time is it?”

Harry panics for a spit second, reaching behind himself to move the clock away from view. He’s too clumsy, of course, and the things ends up falling to the floor with a loud thump. Harry moves back and kisses Zayn, think fast he bites his bottom lip to try and distract him. “It’s past ten.”

Zayn kisses him back, nodding into the kiss as he parts his lips. “Okay,” he shifts away from Harry, covering his eyes with his arm. “I’m up, I’m up.”

“Great!” Harry jumps out of bed and claps his hands.

“What–”

“Let’s go!”

“Harry.” Zayn sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. “What–” he shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

Zayn’s cheeks are puffy, his eyes barely staying open as he frowns at Harry, confused and sleepy and adorable.

“I thought of something we could do.”

Zayn looks at him until he shakes his head, climbing out of the bed with more effort than he would if he knew the actual time. “Of course you did.”

“Of course I did.” Harry nods and smiles to himself, almost pats his back for managing to wake Zayn up without much struggle and only a little white lie. “Now go and get ready, we have to leave five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

*

Zayn’s not happy. He’s actually really mad at Harry for that not-so-little white lie that’s supposedly totally not white, but a big giant one that Zayn will never forgive him for. Ever. As they make their way up the fire escape, Harry finds he doesn’t really care what Zayn thinks. Maybe a little, but definitely not enough to even try a halfhearted apology that he wouldn’t even mean and that would probably end up making Zayn even angrier.

The frown between Zayn’s eyebrows practically melts away once they climb the metal stairs to the top, stepping over a knee-high wall and onto the rooftop.

The building right next to the motel has an old rusty fire escape that caught Harry’s eye when he waited for Zayn to completely empty the vending machine last night. The motel only has the one ground floor, so the roof reaches a couple of feet higher than Harry’s head does, which is not high at all. But the building they’re standing on top of now has three glorious floors that reach over the roofs of every other building around, which is to say over the other ground floor establishments along the road.

The best thing about the desert is the flatness of it. It curves along the Earth’s surface, disappearing into the horizon and going on with no end in sight – with only a couple huge rocks here or there. It’s almost five thirty by the time they’re sitting on the edge with their feet dangling in the air and the sun is starting to wake up alongside Zayn. The bright yellow chases away the dark of the night, like watercolors spilling over a great canvas, the blues and the cyan splashing above their heads as they tinge the sky into a subtle green tinge – the perfect color of a sunrise.

“What time is it really?”

“It’s five thirty.”

Zayn’s eyes bulge out. “Five?”

“You’ve never done this, right? Woken up with the sun?” Harry asks, carefully, hoping he didn’t go through all the trouble for nothing.

Zayn keeps his eyes on the sky right in front of them, only a sun ray here or there escaping from behind the horizon. His eyes are narrowing with the arrival of the sun, but he doesn’t look as angry as he did just a few seconds before. “No,” Zayn says, shaking his head minutely. “I haven’t.”

Harry smiles, more proud of himself than he’s willing to hide. “I remembered how many times we went to watch the sunset,” he starts, looking at the way the whole sky warms up. It’s as if someone’s switching on the day, opening the doors and the windows to let the world air out as a wind swipes past them. “But never a sunrise and since, you know, you want to do everything, I though why not.” Harry shrugs, because he doesn’t know if Zayn will like the thought or not. He could never be sure with Zayn.

Harry waits for Zayn to say something, to either agree or scoff at the stupid idea that will make Harry laugh it off. In the moment that they sit there, as the world around them lights up, it could go either way. But there’s something about the way Zayn turns his head just-so to eye Harry for a second or two before he focuses back on the sunrise lifting higher and higher, that lets Harry know Zayn is still thinking of his answer. It’s not completely unlike him to do that. Zayn knows it drives Harry crazy, the waiting and the wondering, overthinking everything, and Harry knows that Zayn knows. He’s letting Harry sweat.

But then, to the surprise of them both, Zayn moves closer and leans his temple against Harry’s shoulder, easy as that. “It’s perfect.”

Harry hums in agreement and sees how Zayn’s eyelids blink close, letting the sunrays warm his skin as Harry looks out to the desert, the flatness of it, the emptiness that they’re both familiar with. This is another one of those things that Harry and Zayn have done already countless of times, over and over again during the summers they spent together, but no matter how many times they find themselves on top of a rooftop, it’s always new, always familiar, always exactly how it’s supposed to be.

They sit there together, with Zayn drifting behind his eyelids long enough for the sun to shine all across the sky, the whole globe radiating with heat. Harry’s leaned his head against Zayn’s sometime in-between wondering what they have left to do and if they could stay here forever, warm and close. It’s not until Zayn’s back pocket starts ringing that they move.

Zayn practically jumps up to see who’s calling him this early in the morning, while Harry frowns and thinks of his own phone, buried somewhere deep in one of the duffle bags, turned off and silent for a month.

“It’s mom,” Zayn says right as he answers, walking behind Harry to have some privacy.

Harry tries to shut off his ears, but he still catches the, “I’m fine mom, great actually,” when Zayn is still close enough. He sits there and takes a moment for himself as Zayn paces behind his back, up and down up and down, probably nodding over the phone even if Trisha can’t see it.

Trisha and Anne were best friends. They used to spend just as much time together as Zayn and Harry did back then, chatting and cooking, going on their own trips and keeping their careful eyes on their wild sons as they sat in the lounge chairs in front of the Malik’s _Inn_. Even when Harry was on the road with his parents, another version of 66 flashing past his car window, Anne would be loud on the phone, catching up with Trisha every once in a while. It’s something Zayn and Harry never did – catching up.

They were glued at their hips during summer, refusing to shower separately from ages five and six, and then again from sixteen on. They shared a bed, shared their meals and Zayn even gave his skateboard to Harry that one unfortunate time – Harry still has scars on his knees to prove it. But that was only from June to August and not a day more. They didn’t call each other, didn’t send letters or secret messages. They kept it for the summer, when they would be face to face, pinky to pinky, and they could talk for days on end. They made a deal when they were five years old and they never broke it once. Though now, Harry wishes they had.

Zayn keeps talking to Trisha on the phone and Harry can’t help but wonder – not for the first time – how she’s doing, if Yaser’s hair has anymore gray in it, or if Doniya still lives at home. Harry hasn’t seen any of the Maliks in three years, but there’s no way he couldn’t pick them out of a crowd still– not with their eyes or their cheekbones, the sharpness of their jaws. It’s kind of like the Style’s dimples in that way, the little trademarks that get passed along in every family from generation to generation. Harry hopes Trisha is good, that she still has the smile she gave to her only son. It is Harry’s favorite after all.

Harry’s left to sit by himself until Zayn hangs up the phone with a “Bye,” to Trisha and a quiet, “Sorry,” to Harry as he gets back.

“It’s okay,” Harry says and smiles. “How is she?”

“She’s fine,” Zayn starts with that tone, the one that means Zayn would love if she worried a little less. “She says hi.”

Harry knows the grin on his face must look stupid, but he can’t help it. “Did you say hi back?”

“I did, yeah.” Zayn shakes his head and smiles a little himself. Harry’s pretty sure he thinks he’s an idiot. But the smile doesn’t last long, instead being replaced by a worrisome look before Zayn says an unsure, “She said you should visit soon.”

Harry’s instincts tell him to apologize, first to Zayn and then to Trisha, to all of the Maliks. He should’ve called, should’ve kept in touch – not for himself but for Anne and everything she taught him besides how to simultaneously smile calmly and assuredly.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, but he feels how his head wants to shake it off instead. “Yeah, I should.”

Zayn hums and moves his legs so that he has them dangling in the air again. Harry starts swinging them up and down, like he used to do on playgrounds when he was six, and Zayn joins him. They end up laughing at themselves and each other, but it puts them at ease, shifts them back to where they were before Trisha called. They were good together, Harry thinks then, they were so good until it all went to shit.

“Doniya has a fancy job in Vegas now.”

“She does?” Harry asks.

Zayn nods, proud and happy. “She’s a manager in some fancy casino. She moved almost a year ago,” he says and then chuckles. “Trisha didn’t take it so well.”

“Her oldest child left her nest, Zayn, of course she didn’t like it.” Harry realizes his tone is scolding, not unlike the one Trisha can have at times actually. It makes them laugh again. “Doniya likes it though?”

“She loves it. Has a new apartment and everything.”

“Is she seeing anyone?”

Harry swears he hears Zayn groan. “Gregory. A total shithead.”

“I don’t know why, but I get the feeling you don’t exactly like him.”

“He’s alright.” It sounds like something Zayn’s had to concede to a couple times before.

“Mhm, bet he is.”

“He’s so dumb,” Zayn whines, finally. “He didn’t know chicken soup was made with actual chickens. It’s _chicken_ soup, Harry. How could he not know that?”

Harry has to cover his mouth not to snort. “Come on, give him a break. It’s an honest mistake,” Harry starts to defend Gregory, but when that snort does escapes his mouth, it’s done. “Yeah, you’re right, he’s dumb.”

“Right? So why doesn’t Doniya see that?” Zayn asks with his eyes wide, actually not understanding, but before Harry can jump to her defense this time, Zayn’s already frowning. “And if you say love or something equally as stupid, I’m gonna smack you. I swear.”

“What?” Harry gasps. “There is such a thing as true love you know.”

“Yeah, but Gregory is not is. Not for my sister anyway.”

Zayn is a lot of things. He’s stubborn, feisty when he needs to be, strong and so very soft. But above all of that, above the wide shoulders and smart fingers, he’s protective of his family. He’s proud to be a Malik and he should be, it’s right that he is. Harry just seems to forget there’s that extra layer to him sometimes, as if Zayn keeps it hidden in front of the world.

“If he isn’t right, Doniya will see that. She’s smart.”

“Fucking genius, you mean.” Zayn flashes him that wide smile and Harry can feel himself swoon over it.

“I thought that was Safaa.”

“All of them are geniuses,” Zayn shrugs, unapologetically, saying it like a fact.

Harry nudges his shoulder. “So are you,” he adds under his breath, just to make sure, just so that Zayn hears it. Because Zayn should know how smart he is – by far smarter than Harry, but he’s not just smart. He’s so much more, but they’re almost out of time and Harry could go on for another month.

He’s at ease though, because he doesn’t have to wonder anymore, if Trisha is okay or if Doniya is still stuck in Boulder. Harry knows now, he has that piece, so he doesn’t have to worry anymore.

Sometimes, Harry realized, you can’t just push and prod at a person, and wait for them to break enough for you to crawl in between the cracks, comfortably twisted around their ribs. That’s not how it works. Because sometimes, in order for the person to give, you have to give first. A piece for a piece. If you want to receive without pushing, you need to push yourself first, give away your horse in exchange for a bishop. Harry’s willing to try it.

He’s willing to do anything, because there’s an echoing _Soon_ ringing from the sky above them, spiraling down into Harry’s lap until it’s right in his hands, ready for the taking. Harry knows that he can’t push, that just because Zayn’s talking now doesn’t mean he would if Harry gives him a tiny nudge. So the ball is in Harry’s court, in his lap, and he can at least try to pass it on. A piece for a piece, like a game of chess – first the white, then the black – and Zayn just made a move, so Harry has two options. He can nod and say how great it is to hear that, nod some more and keep quiet, keep waiting. Or he can make a move as well and start with his horse so that his intentions are as clear as today’s sky is.

Harry wishes it was easier. If it wasn’t him and Zayn – two peas in a pot – than there would be no games, no strategies, no wondering if what you’re going to do will be another stepping stone in your life or not. It wouldn’t be this important. But it is Harry and it’s Zayn, and they never knew how to do this properly, because no one ever taught them. Zayn was raised to be a mechanic and Harry had to memorize all those lessons, one more important than the other, but no one ever taught them how to just come out with it and say it. Harry and Zayn don’t know how _not_ to keep things close to their heart, behind a shield and armor, in an uncrack-able safe.

They watch the world wake up around them as they drink the soda Harry remembered to snatch from the vending machine on their way to the roof. There’s a slight wind dancing around them, lifting dust in the air and playing with it, twirling it around in the sun. Harry bites at his knuckle and looks at his dangling legs. He wonders what would happen if he jumped off, if landing on the concrete with a loud _crack_ would rid him of the prickling feeling in his fingertips. He’s almost ready to push himself from the edge when he shakes himself out of it.

It’s a simple sentence that weighs uncountable tons on the tip of Harry’s tongue, choking him with each syllable, but he manages to stutter out a quiet, “I miss them,” instead of jumping away. He has to close his eyes as he does though, because Harry’s never said that out loud.

He can feel the trace Zayn’s eyes draw on his face, but Harry doesn’t want to see the pity somewhere deep behind Zayn’s irises, because it’s not what he needs. Harry’s not looking for sympathy, so he keeps his head down.

He knows Zayn is tracing the line of his eyebrow with his thumb without even looking. “Trisha told me.”

Harry’s heart doesn’t know what to do, stopping and speeding up, beating out of his chest as his pulse flat-lines. “I couldn’t– I couldn’t–”

“Harry,” Zayn whispers, his name soft on Zayn’s lips. “I know.”

Harry takes a deep breath, feeling how his chest expands with the inhale. “I wanted to call you,” he starts, moving his horse. “But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything.”

“I know,” Zayn repeats, but Harry hates how it sounds like pity, like he’s sorry for him. “I mean, I can’t even imagine… I don’t know what I would do.”

 _You’d want to set the world on fire_ , Harry thinks. Instead, he shrugs and shakes his head, trying to figure out what else to say.

“When did it happen?” Zayn asks, careful and slow.

Harry finally lifts his head to look at Zayn. He’s sorry, Harry can tell, but there’s no pity in his eyes like Harry expected, no sympathy either. What Harry didn’t even think about was empathy – condolence and empathy are shining from Zayn’s eyes like a lighthouse, the safety Harry hasn’t had for a long time.

Harry keeps his eyes on Zayn’s as he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Yesterday,” he says, the words whooshing out of him. “It feels like it happened yesterday, and the day before that and just five minutes ago. It feels like it’s happening every time I close my eyes. They died three years ago and they die every single day when I wake up and they’re not there.”

It’s supposed to be cathartic. Harry thought that if he finally finds the chance to say the words, if he gathers up enough courage to think those things out loud, that it will lift some of the weight off his chest. Like a counterbalance, a scale of your insides evening out until your heart is settled and beating again. But the words are out there and they’re staring right back at Harry, facing him dead-on, and he doesn’t feel any better. The heavy load is still there. Someone finally heard what’s been clogging Harry’s head for three years, but even so, Harry doesn’t feel any different. It’s supposed to be cathartic, but maybe that’s just what Harry hoped.

He knew he was keeping it too close to his heart, that it wasn’t good to hold on to it, because no one would ever dare to take it away from him in the first place. It’s not one of those things someone would get jealous over, envious until their face would be green. Harry knew it was just a matter of time before he says it. But now, after years of restless sleep and his chest under more weight than ever, Harry realizes it’s not the words that hurt. It’s not about keeping it in or embracing it, staying quiet or shouting it from the rooftops – it’s the fact that it happened. That’s what hurts, that’s the weight.

His parents are gone. The only family he’s ever had is gone. And now he’s sitting on the ledge, with nowhere left to go but down.

He doesn’t look at Zayn as he shakes his head and smiles, releases a little laugh that’s ripping him apart. “Two cops came to my house to tell me the news,” Harry grabs his chest, remembering how confused he was, how he knew why they were standing at his door from the moment he saw the red and blue flashing in front of his house.

“Harry–”

“I just– I couldn’t believe them. I didn’t _want_ to believe them,” Harry laughs humorlessly again. “I waited for Des and Anne to show up, but,” he shrugs. “They didn’t.”

Zayn inches his way closer to him, careful, like he’s approaching a scared animal that’ll run off to the hills with any sudden movements. But if there were any hills, if there wasn’t just dust and roads and flat miles up ahead, Harry would already be climbing all of them, giving the hills a middle finger over his shoulder.

He’s not scared though. Harry’s sad and he’s angry, he’s alone and he doesn’t know what else he could say, but he’s not scared. He’s never been scared, not because of this.

Zayn sits on the edge of the roof so that he has one leg under himself, facing Harry with the kind of sadness Harry thinks is reserved only for him. No one’s ever looked at Harry like that and he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with it.

“Harry,” Zayn starts, but as soon as he does, Harry wants to stop him. He doesn’t want pity, he’s never wanted to make anyone feel sorry for him. But Harry can’t stop Zayn as he says, “I can’t imagine what you’ve had to go through. And I can’t believe you went through it alone.”

Harry smiles against everything he’s feeling right now, because of course Zayn would know how to use his words to make him feel better. It’s what they always do.

Zayn takes Harry’s hand in his own and as he starts to trace a soothing circle over his knuckles, Harry thinks that maybe at the end of all this, he’ll come out okay. Not better, not worse for wear, not any different, just… okay.

“I know I should’ve called you, I just– I couldn’t.”

“I’m not holding it against you.”

Zayn holds up his hands for emphasis, but he doesn’t have to because Harry believes him. He figured that Zayn’s had enough time to think it over and see the situation from just about any perspective he wanted. Of course he wouldn’t hold something like this against Harry. So Harry nods once, _I understand_ and a _thank you_ all wrapped up in that one movement.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Harry shifts so that he’s facing Zayn too, head on, because if he’s said this much, he can say everything else as well. And Zayn won’t hold any of it against him. Zayn wouldn’t do anything but listen, nod his head and hum in all the right places. Maybe he’ll ask a question or two, but it doesn’t even matter, because Zayn deserves to know. No matter how much time has gone by, the Styles and Maliks have always been there for each other.

“You know,” Harry starts, shaking his head, because he’s sure he’ll sound stupid. “I got stuck on the idea of how you’re still a child.”

“Hey,” Zayn’s quick to protest. He’s smiling though and just that small curve makes Harry feel better.

“No, not like that. I mean, you and Doniya, Waliyha and Safaa are all still children, right? You still have your parents. And I don’t, so I’m not a child anymore.”

The smile is quick to fall from Zayn’s face then, but rather than the sickening sadness, it’s replaced with a deep frown. “I never thought about it like that.”

“Why would you?” Harry shrugs, more self-deprecatingly than he’d ever admit. “The point is that it’s really depressing to think about. Like, I’m officially an orphan.”

Zayn’s eyes widen with something like shock, but Harry’s been over this again and again in his head, late at night when it’s dark and the world around him is asleep, stuck on everything he wished he didn’t have to think about.

“That’s– That’s–” 

“It sucks,” Harry agrees. “It sounds horrible and it doesn’t feel any better. But, you know,” Harry shrugs again, but he laughs this time as well, a painfully dry chuckle slipping past his lips. “I can’t do anything about it.”

A heavy weight now lies between them, pressing onto their hands as Zayn still rubs his thumb over Harry knuckles. But it only lasts a second of two, because Zayn’s quick to inhale that quick little breath before he starts to speak.

“You still have us, you know? Trisha really does want you to come by,” Zayn says, adamant and more persuasive than he needs to be. “And Safaa misses her godfather.”

“Yeah?”

Zayn nods, grinning. “She’s always asking about you, if we’ve heard anything, when you’re coming back.”

“She’s my favorite Malik.”

“Yeah, mine too.”

“How’s she doing in school?”

“Amazing, of course, little genius. But,” Zayn bites his lip and his eyes get darker, fiercer with a flame burning behind his golden brown. “She had a hard time with this bully in her class for a while. I took care of it though.”

“You did, did you?”

“I didn’t beat him up or anything.”

“But you wanted to,” Harry says knowingly.

“Of course I did.” Zayn’s voice pitches higher. “Yaser wanted to kill the kid, but Trisha talked some sense into us, so we talked some sense into the kid.”

“You wanted to punch a ten year old boy.” Harry shakes his head and tuts, but it’s hard to keep the smirk off his lips.

“If you wouldn’t do the same, then I’m sorry, but I’m revoking your godfather title.”

Harry gasps. “You can try.”

“Oh, I will.” Zayn goes to hold Harry’s other hand, laughing as he twists Harry’s wrists slightly.

Harry pulls him close, so that they’re almost chest to chest. “Good luck with that.”

Zayn licks over his lips as his eyes fall from Harry’s eyes to his mouth. “I’m not gonna need it.”

“Whatever you say,” Harry drawls, leaning in and pecking Zayn’s lips softly.

*

The sun is right above their heads, shining onto the roof with no mercy, turning the concrete on the streets into liquid as the heat sticks to Harry’s skin. The small pebbles strewn over the rooftop are digging into Harrys back uncomfortably, sticking up into his spine and kidneys, one in particular digging into his skin right at the nape of his neck. He’s not complaining though, because he has Zayn right next to him, his pinky twisted with his own as they fry in the sun together, their faces probably already burnt.

As soon as their lips met, Harry almost climbed into Zayn’s lap right on the edge of the roof, wanting to get as close as he could with a smile still on his lips, as Zayn licked his way down Harry’s neck. If they are close, if Harry can have his hands on Zayn’s hot and sweaty skin, then Harry doesn’t have to think about anything but getting closer. It’s the best kind of push and pull, seeing where the line is, what will make the other close his eyes and tremble, push further and moan.

They’re lying on the roof now with their eyes closed against the hot piercing sun as Zayn hums under his breath. The song alone makes Harry chuckle, but it’s the memory of Zayn laughing against Harry’s neck that makes him stand up and pull Zayn to his feet.

“Give me your phone,” Harry instructs a confused looking Zayn. “Come on, hand it over.” Zayn does and Harry’s quick to find what he’s looking for. He slips the phone back into Zayn’s pocket and goes to hold his hands.

A quick simple melody lasts for two seconds before the words, _You can dance, every dance with the guy who gives you the eye and let him hold you tight_ rings out from behind Zayn. They burst out laughing, still holding onto each other as Harry can feel himself beam with joy and mirth. Zayn’s eyes are in slits and his nose is all wrinkled up with laugh lines that reach from one ear to the other.

They stand there for a beat longer like that, laughing and remembering how the last time they heard this song together looked like. It was years ago. They were in Zayn’s room at the Inn and it must have been well past midnight. Harry was lounging on the bed in nothing but his boxers, because the heat was unbearable in August no matter the time of the day. Zayn was standing at the jukebox he brought into his room for the summer, because he didn’t have a radio or speakers, and Yaser was kind enough to let him – probably only because Harry was there too and Yaser’s always had a hard time saying no to Harry’s charming dimples. Harry could feel how sweat was gathering on his back at the elastic of his boxers as he lied on his stomach and pretended to flip through Zayn’s sketch book, because he actually kept his eyes right on the bare expanse of Zayn’s bare back.

Standing on the roof top and taking the first sway to the left, Harry can distinctly remember the look on Zayn’s face as he put the song on, _Save the Last Dance for Me_ by _The Drifters_. He turned around and smirked at Harry, raised a poised eyebrow and extended his hand, like a challenge or a dare, an ‘I bet you won’t take it’. Harry, of course, being seventeen and stupidly enamored with Zayn, stood up with his own smirk, taking Zayn’s hand in stride.

They swayed right there in Zayn’s room, Harry twirling him with his right hand as he kept his left on Zayn’s waist, low enough for the ends of his fingers to rest on the dip of Zayn’s back. They danced and laughed, kissing in between notes and twirling closer and closer to each other.

They’re laughing now as well, as Harry takes a step back and lifts his whole arm up to twirl Zayn again, round and round until he pulls him back to his chest to hold on tight as they continue to sway. After all this time, neither of them knows how to waltz. They don’t properly dance or even follow the rhythm like they’re supposed to. Zayn just sways however Harry leads him to, front to back and left to right, spinning in circles until they’re dizzy and breathless.

The song starts to slow down and fade out until the last word is sung and they come to a standstill. There’s no bed to fall back on this time, nothing to break their fall as they stumble to get their lips closer. They taste each other’s smiles and Zayn’s hips seem to not get the memo, because he’s still moving left and right, like the melody is now silent in the air between them.

Harry thought that the dance in Zayn’s room was their first and last, the beginning and end of their dancing careers. He never thought he’d get the chance to lead Zayn like that again, to the song that will forever remind him of room 1-0-3.

“I still can’t dance,” Zayn says into Harry’s neck, kissing him there. “And neither can you.”

“I think we’re pretty good together.”

Zayn laughs against Harry’s skin and buries his face deeper into the crease at his shoulder. Harry thinks this is a good beginning, like the last time they danced was only the prelude and now they’ve finally moved on to the actual songs, the arias and symphonies, the ones they’ll remember as right here right now on this rooftop is where it all really began. Zayn leans his temple against Harry’s shoulder as he says a quiet, “Yeah, we are good together.”

Harry hums as he presses his lips to the top of Zayn’s head. The sun is steadily dipping down, easing its way off of the sky with each minute that passes them up on the roof.

It’s been a good day, Harry thinks, watching the sun make its way up and now down, losing momentum as the world keeps spinning around like it always does, forward and forward with no stopping in between. Harry gave a piece of himself away today. He gave instead of pushing like he usually would have done and he hopes Zayn recognized it for what it was. Harry hopes he’ll get something back in return for it, but even if he doesn’t, by the end of the day, Harry will be okay.

*

It’s two days and a bottle of whiskey later that they make their way to the next town, which is a little bigger than the one before with about five or ten more buildings along the main road, and a proper fountain in the town square. It’s a circle of concrete with a sculpture in the center that’s meant to spray water all around even though it’s summer and you always have to save water in the desert. Harry likes it though, a mirage in the middle of nothing. An oasis, an illusion that appears when you need it most.

“It’s homey,” Harry says as they make their way to a diner in the square, whipping his head back and forth.

“It’s like out of some movie.”

“Maybe it was the set of one?”

Zayn shrugs and tightens his hold on Harry’s hand as they cross the road. “You should know.”

“What? Why?” Harry stops paying so much attention to the neatly painted buildings along the road, some bright yellow, others a more understated exposed wooden shack type, and diverts his eyes back to Zayn.

“You know these little things about towns. But you’ve been to most of them, I guess.”

“I haven’t been to this one. Or I don’t think I have.”

“Oh, so this is something for your list too?”

Harry smiles. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Zayn shakes his head, but Harry can tell he’s pleased with himself.

“I’m starving,” Zayn says. He rubs his hand over his stomach and Harry can relate. The spent all afternoon and night drinking yesterday, right in their bed, surrounded by a mountain of pillows.

Something Harry’s learnt from living in motel rooms for most of his life is that no matter where you are or how expensive – cheap – your room is, you can always ask for more pillows. It’s a rare commodity that motels are ready to extend to their customers. And as soon as Zayn heard that, he was walking down to the main desk and asking if he could get five more pillows for his bad back. They gave him three, which is still two more than what Harry was ever able to get, but enough for them to build a half-assed fort on the bed.

They got sloppy drunk, kissing and blabbering nonsensical words into each other’s ear with hot breaths and wet lips. They fucked twice yesterday, their breaths hotter and mouths sloppier, kicking the sheets to the floor until they collapsed on top of one another, spent and satiated. And they fucked again this morning, on a mission to make up for every day they missed in those three years. They still have a long way to go, a lot of kisses to give and even more nights to share tangled in bed together, but they’re doing it, they’re making progress. Every night, they do the best they can to make up for it all.

But after they woke up this morning and had a long lazy shower, they were both starving for some pancakes with honey as syrup. Zayn whispered it against Harry’s back as the water cascaded down their skin and Harry nearly melted with the words. Anne used to make them pancakes with honey when they were younger, saying it was the healthiest breakfast for two growing boys with a sweet tooth.

So Zayn opens the diner’s door and lets Harry walk in first. It’s a cozy little place with no more than ten tables around the counter and along the two large windows. The place settings are all pastel blue with tiny little white dots. It’s quaint, simple and quiet for early noon.

Harry picks the last table to the left, right underneath the window that’s opened to the street that’s just as quaint and quiet. The whole town feels magical with its simplicity and normalcy. There are a couple of people walking around, a few cars pass the diner, but nothing else, no commotion, no loud noises or still silence that they’ve seen in other towns just days, weeks ago.

Antonia is a little old lady that comes to their table with two menus and a gentle smile, showing her missing front teeth.

“What can I get you two?”

Zayn grabs the menu and submerges himself in all the foods they have to offer but Harry’s doesn’t take his eyes off of Antonia and her blue blue eyes.

“How long has this diner been here?” He asks with no preamble, because he feels like he has to. Harry does know every small or big town anywhere around here. He’s been to all of them more times than he’d like to count, but he doesn’t remember this one, doesn’t know any obscure facts about it. Yet.

Antonia eyes shine at the question. “Oh, about sixty years, I’d say. I’ve been here for forty. Nearly part of the place,” she laughs.

“You don’t look a day over twenty,” Harry says and flashes his dimples. He’s charming her, he knows, but there’s something about Antonia that makes him think of Santa Monica and the chess park he goes to twice a week. She’d fit right in. Probably has more stories to tell than all of the regulars combined.

“Now, now,” she says as she steps next to Zayn, patting him on the shoulder. “You got a real charmer here, don’t you?”

“I sure do,” Zayn drawls, peering at Harry from behind his menu. “Cheeky little thing.”

“I can imagine he is, yeah. Would you boys like some strawberry milkshakes on the house?”

“Will you make them?” Harry asks, smirking at both of them as he leans closer, his elbows on the table.

“I will.” Antonia nods, knowing exactly what Harry’s doing.

“Then yes, please, we’d love some milkshakes.”

“And plain pancakes with honey, please,” Zayn pipes up as he gathers the menus and hands them back to Antonia.

“Pancakes with honey coming right up,” Antonia repeats and turns around, going straight behind the counter and disappearing in the kitchen.

“Aren’t you sly,” Zayn shakes his head. He’s smiling though, so Harry counts it as a win.

“Hey, I like Antonia.”

“You should take her on a date then. Ask her to go steady.”

Zayn’s laughing at himself, still shaking his head, but Harry smirks back at him. “I would,” he agrees. He looks down at his hands and twists his fingers around, wonders what Zayn will do, because Harry can’t help to say a quick, “But I’m pretty sure I’m taken.”

Before the words are out of his mouth, it’s as if someone had turn off all the lights and took the air out of the diner as Harry waits to lift his head, afraid of the look on Zayn’s face and what it could tell him.

He can hear how Zayn exhales and he think he moves a little, but Harry doesn’t look up to hear Zayn say a cool and collected, “Yeah, you are.”

For all the days and nights Harry and Zayn spent together, tangled limbs and intertwined pinkies, they’ve never divulged into what they were doing. They were friends, lifelong companions, confidants and partners in crime, but they never went steady. They were never more than friends that like the taste of each other’s lips. They weren’t anything they didn’t want to be and those summers are still Harry favorite memories.

They climbed trees together until Zayn fell of the top branch once when he was seven and broke his arm. That’s something Harry won’t ever forget either, the searing screech that pierced his ears about eleven second after a heavy _thump_ shook the ground when Zayn fell. It sounded like Zayn was at least dying, calling for his mom through crocodile tears and ripping sobs. Trisha wasn’t there to hear him though, because they went to the edge of the town where there were tall sturdy trees for them to climb, away from the Inn and everyone that could’ve helped them.

It was on Harry to calm Zayn down, to soothe him and ensure that everything will be okay, that it’s not as bad as it looks – and it looked horrific. Harry climbed down carefully, watching his step with every branch he had to climb down, because he knew that if he fell too, they wouldn’t be able to calm each other out of the frenzy Harry was feeling with each step. Harry had to be brave for the both of them.

Zayn was sitting on the ground, mud all over his face and clothes as he cradled his arm like that took some of the pain away. When Harry came to stand in front of him, wondering what he could possibly do, he wondered if Zayn was doing it subconsciously, holding the part that hurts like an indication of where he’s broken, where he needs to be fixed. Zayn was holding himself together underneath that tree, but he still looked so fragile, so beaten down and literally broken.

Harry’s first instinct was to crouch down and cry right along with him. But when Zayn looked up at him with watery eyes and trembling bottom lip, Harry did what he had to. He rolled up his sleeves and went to work. Neither of them particularly wanted to touch Zayn’s swollen arm, so they let it be as they walked back into town – Harry trying his hardest to distract Zayn from what must’ve been horrible pain. They haven’t broken a bone since, either because of the look on Zayn’s face when he realized Trisha wasn’t coming no matter how hard he wailed or the look on Zayn’s face when they finally reached Trisha.

They didn’t get grounded, but they did get a scolding of a lifetime when Anne and Trisha put them in the backseats and drove to the hospital. An earful of everything worse that could’ve happened was enough to keep them away from trees for a lifetime. It was more than enough to make them friends for life as well.

“Remember when you broke your arm?” Harry asks when Antonia takes away their empty plates.

Zayn’s eyes widen. “I’ve got a scar that makes sure I won’t ever forget.” And as he stretches his left arm on the table, Harry can clearly see the scars, little scratches here and there that are now just tiny white lines along Zayn’s forearm. “And now I’ve got a new one to go along with these.”

Harry’s eyes land on the bigger shinier scar on Zayn’s bicep, right where the hem of his sleeve is and for a second, he wants to touch it. He just wants to run his finger over it to see if he can still feel the pain that was once there.

“Does it hurt?”

Zayn holds his hand over the scar. “Nah, it’s okay.”

“Maybe I’m your bad luck charm.”

“I’m pretty sure you are, yeah.”

“I was joking,” Harry says, his lips in a pout.

“I wasn’t,” Zayn laughs and finds Harry’s ankle with his own. He tangles their feet underneath the table as he leans back in his chair, full and happy. “But maybe I’m your good luck charm.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe I get hurt instead of you, right? So I’m your good luck charm, because instead of you I fell off that fucking tree.”

“Huh.” It’s one way of looking at it. A way that doesn’t make Harry sound so completely awful. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Yeah, so instead of you being bad, I’m just _that_ good.”

“Oh, okay, okay,” Harry laughs, shaking his head because of course it isn’t as innocent as it sounds. “You’re just the best, aren’t you?”

Zayn smiles as wide as he’s ever had, giggling like he’s seven years old again. “I am, yeah.”

Harry can’t contain his own happiness in the moment, as Antonia keeps busy behind the counter and they’re the only people left in the diner. It’s just the two of them really, sitting opposite each other and grinning like they know the secrets of the universe, like all the stars are in the palms of their hands and they’re the only ones who can see them.

“Yeah, you are.”

*

“This is dangerous.”

“No it’s not.”

“We could get run over.”

“There’s no one driving here this late.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Harry.” Zayn levels him with his best scowl. “Lay down.”

“If I die, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

“I’m serious.” Harry sits down next to Zayn on the still-hot concrete. “I’m gonna come back and haunt you.”

“Uh, I’m so scared.”

They’re sitting right below the traffic light that’s blinking yellow at oncoming traffic. Zayn’s right though, no one’s going to drive by here this late at night – or morning, depending on how you look at it. They’ve been sitting in front of the motel on the pavement for a couple of hours and not a single car has gone past. Harry’s still keeping his ears open though, because he’s definitely not looking to be road kill tonight.

“You should be. I’m gonna make an excellent ghost one day.”

“Harry, lay down already.”

Zayn’s all stretched on the road, his hands perched behind his head so that he looks like he’s just lounging around, chilling in the middle of the road at three in the morning like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Harry’s pretty sure it’s not though.

“Yeah, yeah.”

They were sitting in front of their room, sharing another bottle of whiskey and talking about everything they could do tonight. From the plain fuck again to the more complicated graffiti the whole town, nothing convinced either Harry or Zayn to move, until they started talking about everything that’s already been done. The skydiving and bungee jumping less accessible to them than the stretch of road, because Zayn had the brilliant idea of doing the _Notebook_ Thing. And that being lying in the middle of the road like two teenagers looking for an adrenaline high. Zayn doesn’t look excited enough for Harry to think there’s any adrenaline pumping though his veins right now, but Harry is nervous enough for his heart to beat faster. And to doubt the whole thing.

He lies down next to Zayn and prompts his head with his hands as well, feeling the rough concrete on his knuckles. The ground beneath his back is radiating heat, burning though his new favorite floral shirt in an unsettling way, but stretching out his body so that it aligns with Zayn’s does feel satisfying in a way Harry didn’t imagine it would.

“This does feel good, doesn’t it?”

“It’s something, yeah,” Harry agrees, wiggling on the road to get more comfortable. “It’d be better if we were in the desert though.”

“The stars?” Zayn asks knowingly. Harry’s always liked the night sky, so full and so empty at the same time. So full of everything you don’t even know where to look.

“The stars.” Harry nods awkwardly.

“You can kinda see them though.”

“Kinda.”

Zayn bumps his head with Harry’s, so that they’re looking at the same stretch of the sky, the same little scintillating dots dancing in front of them. Harry can hear Zayn breathe, can feel his heat as well, how he inches his whole body closer to Harry like a steady tide washing closer and closer to your feet. He can feel how Zayn turns his head to look at his profile, but Harry keeps his eyes on the stars and waits to see the first shape.

“Here,” he says, reaching his arm out. “Look.” Harry points a finger to the brightest star they can see and traces a simple shape around it, connecting the dots. “It’s a heart.”

Zayn hums and nods minutely, probably smiling a little.

“And there,” Harry moves his arm to the right and a bit lower, “There’s an umbrella.”

“An umbrella?”

Harry tries to muffle his laughter with his arm. “Mhm, and umbrella.”

“ _Beautiful Mind_ much?”

Harry laughs against himself. “Maybe I’m a genius.”

“Oh yeah, total mastermind.”

They laugh as Harry keeps connecting the dots, finding perfect circles and simple smiles in curves, complex images of faces that Zayn doesn’t quite see at first. And then Zayn tries his hand too, shows Harry where he sees a straight line that he says is a stick. Harry can’t argue, because even if it is ridiculous, the line of stars does like exactly like a stick.

“We have two more days.” Harry needs to say it. They both know it, but it’s almost as if they don’t remind each other, then it doesn’t exist and this time doesn’t have a limitation. Maybe it doesn’t, maybe it doesn’t have to end in two days. Maybe they don’t have to go back to Santa Monica just yet.

Zayn sighs a heavy, “Yeah.”

Harry doesn’t think he’ll do anything more than acknowledge it, but Zayn turns his head to look at Harry again, like he’s trying to figure something out. He turns back to point his face at the stars, and Harry just waits there for whatever might happen.

Harry can see how Zayn bites his lip for a second before he inhales and sets his mind to it, determined and ready, quickly opening his mouth to say, “I was engaged.”

There are a lot of things Harry expected Zayn to say. The one that kept Harry awake at night to appreciate the slope of Zayn’s nose, the sharpness of his jaw and the gentle curve of his endless eyelashes was that Zayn might be dying. Harry didn’t try to dwell on why, just that it might be it, that he’s gone crazy with the short amount of time he has left, doing _everything_ he has to do. It was sickening to even consider, but Harry had to do it, because he was left to figure it out on his own for far too long. But what definitely wasn’t one of Harry’s guesses was Zayn getting down on one knee in front of someone to ask their hand in marriage – asking for always and forever.

“Cold feet?” Harry asks, because Zayn’s been silent for too long and it’s too uncomfortable to keep the words hanging in the air like that, like a shape in the sky.

Zayn chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like it’s funny, not at all. It’s a painfully dry sound that gets half stuck in Zayn’s throat. “Actually no.”

Harry doesn’t know if he can ask, because it might be pushing and Zayn won’t give anything else up, but he has to, because he can’t winder any longer. Harry can’t add the words _I was engaged_ to the pile already on his back.

“What happened?”

“What didn’t happen.” Zayn takes his hands from behind his back and runs a thumb over his eyebrow. He’s nervous, Harry can feel it, like it’s radiating from Zayn’s pores and onto Harry’s tongue, the bitter taste of wanting to stay quiet. “Do you know Stefanie? She’s the one that hung out with the Tomlinson kid, remember?” Zayn asks, rushing his words to speed it up.

And Harry thinks he knew her. “The blonde one?”

“Yeah, her.”

“She was pretty,” Harry remembers. She was tall back then, taller than all the boys and she had the longest blonde hair, reaching all the way down to her waist. She used to play football with the boys, running around and getting dirty on the field while the other girls stayed on the sidelines to watch. Harry remembers Stefanie and her best friend Louis too, how they used to be just like him and Zayn, joined at the hip, two sides of the same coin. Harry knows that during the year, when he slept on the backseats of the pickup and watched how the clouds followed him around, Zayn used to hang out with them. When Harry wasn’t there, Zayn had other friends and confidants, other partners in crime that Harry heard about during the summer.

“She still is,” Zayn says, sure and steady, like he knows more about it than Harry does, but sad at the same time. “About a year ago, at Louis’ bachelor party, someone introduced me and Stef like we didn’t know each other since we were kids. We found it funny, you know,” Zayn says and looks over at Harry, keeps their eyes together before he goes on and looks back at the sky. “So we kept close for the whole party.”

“Louis’ married?” Harry has to ask, because aside from everything else, that’s the thing that sticks out the most. That’s the thing Harry wants to focus on for right now.

“And he has a kid.”

“Well, good on him.” Harry wiggles again and puts his hands on his stomach too. There’s not a single sound around besides their voices, nothing that would tell him that a car is fast approaching, so Harry relaxes further onto the road. And maybe for just a second, he waits to hear an echo of an engine.

“He’s happy and so was I,” Zayn continues then, sufficiently shutting Harry up. “Stef and I were good. It wasn’t love at first sight or anything, but we were happy, you know? We were good.”

It’s not easy to listen to how Zayn was so content to be with someone that isn’t him, but Harry never thought it would be. That’s as unsurprising as it’s painful. But Harry has no right to complain or object. It’s all his doing in the end. There’s only one person to point an accusatory finger at and it’s all Harry. He’s the one that should’ve called, that could have picked up the phone and let Zayn do all the talking. Harry’s the one who let Zayn slip through his fingers, made him turn around and walk right up to Stefanie.

And the ones that hurt the most aren’t the ones that got away, but the ones you let go. The ones that are happy without youl

“I knew you weren’t coming in June,” Zayn says, quieter now, but still as sure as before. “When you didn’t show up on the first day of June, I knew you weren’t coming back.”

Harry’s throat constricts, his eyes close and all he can say is, “I’m sorry.” But that doesn’t mean anything.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It hurt, yeah, but I never blamed you for it. You did what you had to do and it wasn’t okay, but you know…”

Harry would say something, he’d agree or he’d yell out for the whole world to hear how broken he still is, but he can’t. He doesn’t think he could say anything to that as it is.

“So when Stef and I clicked, I thought why not?” Zayn goes on, keeps talking even if Harry can’t completely focus on his words. “I didn’t mean to get into a serious relationship and I wasn’t looking for love, but it got pretty serious when she got pregnant.”

“She got–”

“It wasn’t planned, but we were happy. We really were.” Zayn sounds like he’s trying to build a case for it, like he’s looking to justify the last three years of his life to Harry. He shouldn’t though, he doesn’t need to and maybe Harry can pretend that he’s happy because he didn’t hold Zayn back. Maybe he can feign relief. “She got pregnant and I proposed.”

“Of course you did,” Harry shakes his head. He can picture Zayn pacing up and down his room, wondering what the right thing to do is. He probably went to Trisha and Yaser before he did anything, before he asked The Question and as well as Harry knows them, they must’ve agreed, but they probably weren’t happy about it. Parents never want to see their children in front of an ultimatum like that.

“Yeah and she said no. She didn’t even think about it, she just turned me down like I was stupid, so I ended up having to convincing her that it was the right thing to do. I just thought it was right, that’s it the way it was supposed to be, so in the end, she said yes. She wasn’t all that happy about it though.”

“That sounds magical,” Harry says and he knows exactly how he sounds, like he’s petty and jealous, but he is. And Harry isn’t above making snarky comments.

“It wasn’t perfect, but it was okay.” Zayn would be shaking his head with a force if he wasn’t lying in the middle of the road. Harry can feel it, he can see it happening, how Zayn’s hair would fall to his forehead. “We were happy. We moved into the Inn and everything. We actually started our lives together, until–”

Harry frowns then, because Zayn’s pause is ominous, heavy with some meaning Harry’s afraid to hear. He doesn’t want to believe it, but he still has to asks, “Did you run out on them?” because if that’s the case, Harry going to kick Zayn’s ass all the way back to Boulder.

“I would _never_ do that,” Zayn almost gasps, looking at Harry with wide eyes and disbelief.

“Then what happened?”

Harry thinks he hears Zayn sniffle and the pause is even heavier. Harry really doesn’t want to know anymore. He can live with never knowing, Harry can make himself survive without this last piece that Zayn has to practically force himself to say.

“We were driving to a doctor’s appointment.”

There’s nothing Harry can say to that, nothing to prompt Zayn to finish the sentence, because Harry doesn’t want him to. Zayn doesn’t want to say it and Harry doesn’t want to hear it. He already knows, there’s no need to verbalize the unspoken words, the heavy load, because there’s only one thing that could’ve made Zayn runaway like that, like he never wants to stop running if it means turning back the time, rewinding or at least making it stand still for a minute or two, just long enough for him to catch his breath, slow and steady. Zayn ran, because he couldn’t be a part of it anymore, a part of something that doesn’t exist.

Zayn clears his throat and says, “We lost everything,” into the sky, into the night and to the stars and to anyone that will hear him, and it doesn’t take Harry any time to know it’s not something Zayn’s ever said out loud before. There’s a certain taste to the words that have never been said before, like the first I love you that smudges your lips with sweet cherry, or the most painful goodbye you never thought you’d hear yourself say tainted with lead. Some words lay heavy on your tongue, some you can taste as they’re flowing from someone’s lips, smelling the poison before you even know what it means. And that, those three words stuck between them forever are the most vial Zayn’s ever had to say.

“Zayn,” Harry whispers, and he hopes Zayn hears the underlying _I’m sorry_ that doesn’t do anyone any good. Sorry doesn’t  fix things, it won’t make Zayn feel better and it doesn’t even begin to imagine what Harry feels for Zayn in that moment, when he can’t quite pinpoint where Zayn is – somewhere between the dancing stars and the hot pavement.

No one knows how much it hurts. No one can imagine what Harry felt when he lost his family, when he lost everything, because there’s nothing in the world that you can equate his loss to. No one can imagine, because no two losses are the same. And people don’t hurt in the same way, they don’t feel the same, don’t have the same grief, don’t follow the same five stages. A paper cut might be detrimental to some, while Harry would laugh in their faces and tell them to try their best, to try and make him hurt at least half as much as he already does. He would dare them, he would double dare them and watch how they fail again and again.

The loss of his family is a mountain of pain that Harry has to climb every day, every minute, every time he blinks his eyes closed for a fraction of a second. It’s climbing a hill over and over, up and down and up and down, every moment for the rest of your life, because that’s what grief does to you. And there’s no way to face loss with a Stoic’s attitude, no way of stopping to catch your breath. The mountain becomes your life, whether you want it or not, the most pointless thing in the world that Sisyphus and Harry are condemned to, and as it turns out, Zayn isn’t any better off either.

Harry turns his head to see how Zayn runs his fingers under his eyes, under his autumn color eyes that Harry swear have been following him around for his entire life. “It was a boy,” Zayn says smiling, a tear slipping past his defenses. Harry doesn’t understand it, the silver-lining smile that just doesn’t fit in, but he doesn’t have to. Zayn looks at Harry for a brief second, like he’s saying he doesn’t get it either, before he turns to look back to the stars. “We didn’t have a name for him yet, because we wanted to wait till he was born to see what fits. That’s what people do apparently. He didn’t even have a name.”

 _Baby Boy_. That’s what his name is, that’s what he’ll be known as, something unbranded, undefined, lost and innocent for as long as he lives in someone’s memory. As long as Zayn and Stef remember and love him, he’ll be Baby Boy Malik, the one that got taken away. The Baby Boy that didn’t even have a name.

The air sits heavy on their chests as silence stretches up and up and towards the sky, twirling around stars and mixing with the late hour. It’s not unbearable though, doesn’t have thin strong fingers tapping close to Harry’s pulse points. It’s fragile, chipped, broken with unspoken words left between them, but Harry knows he doesn’t have anything left to give tonight. And neither does Zayn. It’s out in the open now, everything that needed to be said, the things they had to let out. But now that it’s out there and Harry knows, it doesn’t make his breathe come any easier.

“Why the list?” Harry asks, because he can’t let get stuck here underneath the blinking traffic light. They both need to breathe.

Zayn coughs into his fist, runs his hands over his face like he’s been awake for days and it’s the only thing that’ll make him stay focused “The list?”

“Yeah, you know. The list of everything you have to do?”

“I just– I wanted to do everything that he won’t be able to.”

“Like dying your hair gray?” Harry smiles. He wants to thread his fingers in Zayn’s hair, pull a little, smooth it back and whisper right above Zayn’s ear so only he’ll hear. So that the words will be only for them.

“Like dying my hair gray, because he won’t have the chance to grow old.” Zayn shrugs, like he’s not quite sure in what he’s saying, but it doesn’t remove the fact that his hair is shining with a deep silver.

“I get it. It’s actually really… It’s really nice.”

“It got me thinking of everything that I’ve never done because I was too afraid. It was so stupid, to let fear hold me back from swimming or driving or getting my nose pierced. So I said fuck it and got on the first bus out of Boulder.”

“Trisha must’ve loved that.”

“It was the second time she yelled at me for doing something stupid,” Zayn laughs, his eyes shining, forgetting for a moment.

“Only the second?”

They share a look for a second, before their mouths open to say, “Trisha never yells,” together.

It used to freak them out. Zayn told him when they were still small enough to lie face to face in Zayn’s bed, how unsettling his mom’s voice got when she wanted to yell. She never did though. Harry hasn’t had the pleasure to hear Trisha actually yell yet, and he’s always been skeptical when Zayn said she did.

Zayn shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair to flatten it down a bit. “I honestly thought I wasn’t going to do anything once I got on the bus. But I guess I did.”

“You did get on the bus,” Harry tries to sound supportive, like he understands, like he knows what drove Zayn to leave his family. But if it’s one thing Harry does know, it’s what leaving feels like. “You left.”

“I left.” Zayn heaves a sigh. He sounds more grounded again, like his feet are back on the ground. “Stef left first though. She moved to New York.”

“Wow, that’s – That’s far.”

“As far as she could go. I can’t really blame her for it, because we both knew it was over as soon as they told us.”

“It’s good to let go,” Harry agrees, feeling the words settle deep in his bones.

“I think we both just needed a change of scenery.”

Harry frowns. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“I don’t think it is, no.” Zayn shakes his head in that way he does when he’s thinking about his words. “The thing I learned from this is that you don’t get to let go. Life doesn’t work that way. Just because you want to move on and forget, doesn’t mean you get to do it. Just because you’re hiding from it, doesn’t mean no one can find you.”

“What are you doing then?” Harry asks, frowning deeper, because he’s never thought about it that way. Like he’s hiding or running away from anything other than the emptiness of that house. It’s not his fault that the world is standing still and that he’s moving one foot in front of the other, but it’s still not going anywhere.

“I’m… I’m doing the things I never did, because before all this, I didn’t really have a reason for it.”

“And now you do,” Harry says, understanding and agreeing and wondering if he has a reason too. Maybe it’s different for Harry, because he didn’t set his mind on anything other than getting out of that town and living his life over, for real, for the first time. He’s letting go because he has to, not because he wants to.

Zayn clears his throat, probably breathing a little easier, before he says an unsure, “If you run away, you never really get to let go.”

“What if all you can do it run?” Because Harry really has no other option. He can’t stay still, he can’t keep thinking about it or wishing anything will change, because it won’t. That’s the thing Harry’s sure of – nothing will make what happened change. And if he doesn’t keep moving his feet, he’s afraid the world will turn back to how it was yesterday or a week ago, a whole year back when Harry still couldn’t get out of his bed in the morning.

“Tough fucking luck,” Zayn says sternly, almost spits as if he’s reminding himself, both of them that there’s no escape from any of it. And as much as Harry can hear him loud and clear, he doesn’t get it. Not this part, not about having to stay stuck in the last place you want to be. But then Zayn repeats, “Just because you want to let go, doesn’t mean you actually get to do it,” and Harry pretends he doesn’t know why.

“But didn’t you literally run away?” he reminds Zayn.

“It wasn’t to get away though.”

Harry narrows his eyes. Maybe it’ll make sense if Harry squints further, if he closes his eyes completely and lets himself flow away with his consciousness. But it probably won’t.

“I want to move on, of course I do,” Zayn says earnestly, if with a heavy tinge of sadness. “But I’ll never let go or run away. I can’t do that. I can’t move on from what happened.”

But Harry is letting go though. He’s moving on in the best way that he can, the only way he knows how, because he can’t keep holding everything so close to his heart anymore. He’s been climbing that mountain every day for three years and he’d want nothing more than to finally get to the other side and walk away.

Zayn turns on his side to really look at Harry now, not just in passing or for a short second, but really look at him. “Harry, you don’t have to forget them,” Zayn says and it doesn’t sound harsh, but it doesn’t make him feel any better either.

“I don’t want to forget them,” Harry nearly shouts the words. “I just don’t want to think about it anymore. I can’t think about it anymore.”

Zayn twists their pinkies together, tethering Harry closer. “You said every second, right?”

Harry nods once, looking up and feeling defeated.

“Then it’s every second. Don’t expect that to change just because you want it to.” Zayn’s words are warm and soft, careful in a way Harry’s not used to. “Stop running away.”

Harry bites his bottom lip to keep quiet. He doesn’t know whether to shout or cry or laugh wildly right in Zayn’s face. It’s easier said than done, like everything is, like it always is. _Not now_ ’s beginning to sound a lot like _right this fucking second_ , but Harry doesn’t know what to do about it. He never knows what to do.

He sniffles and runs the back of his hand under his nose, disgusted and ashamed at the sound he makes.

Zayn shakes his head and smiles down at Harry, cocks his head to the side like there’s something he sees somewhere on Harry’s face that he doesn’t want to tell him about. “I probably sound all grown up right now, but I’m talking out of my ass and you now it. Do whatever you want. I’ll be here.”

Harry smiles his silent thank you and nods, feeling the determination sink into his skin a little.

“So how come you went to Santa Monica?” Harry asks just so that he opens his mouth again. He doesn’t care what they talk about anymore, just that they keep talking. “I don’t really see you as the ocean type.”

Zayn laughs and the sound is almost enough to break some of the tension. “Trisha told me where you live.”

“Oh.”

“But I didn’t plan to run into you in the bank. I had your address, I was just trying to figure out if I wanted to see you or not.”

“You mean you were waiting for something to make you.” Harry sounds all-knowing too now, but in this case, he is. Zayn’s always needed a push, someone to make him take the first step towards the pool or the tree. Zayn can be stubborn, but only when someone makes him. He was probably waiting for Trisha to call him and tell him to march up to Harry’s house and do it.

Zayn sits up then and turns his head over his shoulder to give Harry one of his more icy glares. “So what if I was.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” Harry says as he sits up as well. “And it worked out in the end, right?”

“I wouldn’t call getting shoot ‘working out’.”

“You can call it whatever you want.” Harry can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up in defense, but the last thing he wants is to fight Zayn now. Not now and not again. They’re not sixteen anymore, with raging hormones and too many words than either know what to do with. “But you have to admit that this,” Harry waves between them, “worked out for the best.”

Zayn’s shoulders visibly relax. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I am?” Harry grins cheekily.

“I’m not gonna say it again.”

Harry gets on his knees in front of Zayn. “Oh, but Zayn. I’m right, you have to say it again.”

“No I don’t. Now get up, a car’s coming.”

Harry turns and there’s a pair of headlights heading straight for them. But he’s not gonna give up that easy. “Say it.”

“No.” Zayn gets to his feet and offers Harry a hand. “Get up.”

“Not until you say it.”

Zayn turns just like that and starts walking away while singing, “Have fun haunting me,” over his shoulder.

And Harry could stay there on his knees just to prove a point, because it’s not like the car wouldn’t stop, but tonight isn’t about taking risks or proving stupid points, so he runs after Zayn as fast as he can, jumps on his back and laughs with his head thrown back.

They didn’t push, but they both gave something tonight. Without much of anything, Zayn and Harry got closer than either probably expected. And at the end of the day, they’re still so similar – still two sides of the same coin – it’s as if no time has passed at all.

*

Harry wakes up at seven sharp. His eyes blink open with an audible pop before he knows what’s happening, like a bucket of ice cold water has just been upturned over his head. He’s not drenched in sweat though, there’s not a single drop on his forehead, but it feels like there should be. Harry’s practically expecting the pillowcase to be damp. The sheets he had wrapped tightly around his shoulders are dry too and still warm from his sleep, but now they’re too tight and he’s struggling to get them off. It just takes Harry longer than it usually does to realize that it’s Friday, that’s all.

He skips stretching when he gets out of bed, feeling the cricks in his back but ignoring every single one of them just to get to the shower sooner. Harry doesn’t really feel like taking a shower either, but he walks to the bathroom nonetheless, because he’s not breaking the last bits of tradition he has left. If it means he doesn’t get to move forward today, so be it. Harry desperately wants to let go, he does, but there’s a delicate difference between moving on and walking away apparently, a line so thin he hasn’t been able to see it. And he still doesn’t, but maybe he can pretend now that he knows it’s there. Harry’s willing to try being still for a minute, so instead of going back to bed, he strips and steps inside the bathroom.

The shower doesn’t run as hot as he wants it to, but Harry’s content to stand under the lukewarm water with his forehead leaning against the tiles. It’s not perfect, but it works as his lips move to the rhythm of droplets hitting the porcelain. He can feel how his mouth moves, shaping around the words he doesn’t speak. The water is pooling on and dripping off his bottom lip as he stands there and says his silent prayer. For the first time though, Harry adds a couple of extra words, quick and mindless, because he wants to include someone else in his hopes and wishes. It’s nothing profound, nothing noteworthy, but Harry still smiles at the thought running through his head.

Harry stands under the water until it runs completely cold, like ice cubes, until he can smell snow and the world around him is deaf, soundless and it’s just him standing there with the water beating his back. It’s all fresh air and the crisp white light of an early spring sunrise, awakening and new. Harry does end up reaching his fingers for the ceiling in front of the mirror after all, because his back needs it and he’s never been one to just disregard tradition like that. And since it’s his own, since he’s the one who made it into a ritual – him and no one else – Harry does it twice and then again, just because he can. Just because no one ever told him to do it.

There’s a plan for today unrolling in front of his eyes. A big honey breakfast that’ll make Zayn’s lips sweet and coffee that will make them sweeter. Maybe a couple of miles stretching before them for the taking. Maybe they could go to another town, visit some other shelter because Zayn would love that. Maybe Harry can convince Zayn to finally swim in the ocean – or at least float on his back as Harry swims circles around him for hours and hours, until they’re both exhausted and all they can do is fall onto a bed with their limbs all tangled and warm. There’s no limit, no dawn to catch anymore, and they can do whatever they want to. They can do whatever Zayn wants to.

But the whole plan, every single thing Harry comes up with as he brushes his teeth and ties his wet hair into a bun – even his own name – it all rolls right back up and falls to the ground with a soundless thud that echoes in the empty room. Completely forgotten and gone for good, just like Zayn.

Maybe it was the confusion of that first second or the realization a minute after Harry woke up that blurred his senses, but Harry didn’t realize that Zayn was no longer in the bed. There’s nothing but sheets and pillows, no arm peeking from anywhere. Harry shakes his head and runs to the door stark naked, but when he steps outside, the _Mustang_ is right there, parked in front of the room just like Harry left it.

Harry turns on his heels and he’s not really sure what he’s doing anymore. He doesn’t know what’s happening, why the bed is empty, why he just took a shower or why he’s even standing there, catching a cold with his wet hair. It’s like he’s stepped into someone else’s skin, like the shower took him to another dimension where everything is turned upside down and this isn’t actually happening.

He has to shake his head again to remember that this isn’t the first time he’s woken up frazzled and completely beyond himself, it’s just that this time Harry’s not panting or sweaty. And instead of waking up to run away from the nightmare, he woke up right into it.

There’s a chest of drawers opposite the bed where Zayn put his rings before he took a shower. The duffle bags are lying right below it and the rings are gone, but as Harry walks back into the room, he sees something there.

It’s a note. There’s a crumpled piece of paper lying neatly folded on the wooden surface, because of course Zayn didn’t just leave. Zayn would never do that, because as far as Harry knows, Zayn would never give Harry that satisfaction of a clean break. He wouldn’t deserve it.

Harry’s thinking of the worst possible thing as he unfolds the note, because during his life, he’s come to learn that good things don’t just happen. People aren’t born lucky or blessed. Luck isn’t something you run out of – it’s something you take for yourself, because that’s the way it works. And Harry never thought he deserved it, because bad people aren’t meant for greatness. They’re supposed to wallow and be anxious, without a good night’s rest because they haven’t earned it. But during this month, Harry took some of that luck and he ran with it, as fast as his feet allowed him and it was good, it was so good, that he’s sure he’s ran out now. Harry’s sure he ran too far and too fast and now it’s gone again and he has to give it back.

The note isn’t long. The letters are neat and straight, the same handwriting Zayn’s always had that leans to the right just that tiny bit, and Harry has no idea what to make of it at first. There are two words, nothing more nothing less, no _p.s._ at the bottom with a little comment of what it means. And there’s nothing on the other side either when Harry turns it over to see if he’s missing something. Nothing’s there. The words are thin and small, but to Harry the font looks like a bold _courier sans_ that’s staring back at him expectantly in anticipation of his next move.

But before Harry realizes, he’s kneeling on the floor with the ripped piece of paper clutched to his chest. He knows – he knows exactly what he needs to do.

*

 _Free Bird_ is blasting through the speakers loud enough to muffle the angry engine and the traffic and his thoughts and the whole world around him – loud enough to hurt, but Harry doesn’t care. He has the windows down, and the sun is shining, and the freeway is busy, but Harry just keeps his foot down and drives on. He passes more cars than he can count, more people and houses than he’d ever paid attention to and as the wind caresses his cheek and licks up his arm, Harry keeps driving towards the oceans.

As the freeway gets busier and busier with the Friday afternoon traffic, Harry picks his phone up from the passenger’s seat and turns it on for the first time in a month. It beeps and lights up, flashes a Welcome Back to him as he passes yet another car. With one hand on the steering wheel, Harry dials and waits for the line to connect.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says as soon as he can.

“No shit, kid,” Teddy answers, but Harry can hear the underlying relief in the words Harry chooses to believe actually mean something closer to _It’s nice to hear from you_.

“You up for a game?”

“Sure kid. Monday morning?”

“Actually…” Harry knew this wasn’t going to be easy and that Ted won’t like the last minute notice, but he needs to do this. Preferably now. “I thought more along the lines of in an hour?”

“An hour? You’re joking, right?”

“Afraid not.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Ted grumbles and the next thing Harry hears is the line going flat. Harry would gasp outrageously, instead he smiles to himself. He throws the phone back on the seat and goes just a little bit faster.

*

“This better be good.”

It’s another version of _It’s nice to see you_ that Harry has to translate for himself, because he knows Teddy’s old and getting ready and then walking all the way across the street to the park isn’t easy for him anymore. Not as it used to be.

“I missed you,” Harry says and beams his smile right at Teddy just to make sure he doesn’t miss it. And Teddy doesn’t, but neither do the people around their table though, which makes Harry duck his head down, because their concerned faces aren’t exactly the reaction Harry was looking for.

“Alright.” Teddy stops as he comes two steps away from the table and lifts his hands in defeat. “That’s it, I’m leaving.”

“No, no, no,” Harry rushes, reaching out for him. “Come on, play a game with me.”

Ted doesn’t say anything as he shoots Harry a quizzical look and goes to finally sit down. He places the wooden box he keeps the pieces in on the tables and straddles his hat on his head. Harry looks at him patiently, until Teddy grumbles a quietly annoyed, “Who are you waiting for? Set it up,” before he pushes the box towards Harry.

This is what Harry knows. He can put together a chess board in his sleep while being blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back. But although Harry’s never thought about bondage chess before and as inviting as it actually seems, he’s not here to daydream.

“So,” Teddy starts, crossing his fingers on the table. “You gonna tell me what this is about or do I need to beat it out of you?”

Harry can’t help but burst into laughter at that, because, well, “You mean beat, like…” but he can’t finish the question, because he’s barely able to breathe with how hard he’s laughing.

“That wasn’t a pun.” Ted gives him the kind of look that Harry doesn’t feel comfortable with, so he puts his hand over his mouth and tries to control himself.

Harry puts the last pawn on the board and as he breathes out before he brings his eyes up, the tangible shift of the situation is disconcerting.

“What’s wrong?” It’s a loaded question, probably the heaviest Harry’s ever had the displeasure of hearing, but Ted’s eyes are so soft and kind, flickering with those yellow spots that Harry can feel the words bubbling in his chest and spilling past his lips before he even has a chance to think them over.

Harry is nothing without a plan. He was raised that way, hearing lesson after lesson, and taught things over and over until they stuck or until Harry started to be a living breathing plan himself – a plan he never wanted to be. It was always about traditions, about doing things a certain way – the right way – because his parents said so. Harry is nothing without a plan, because he is a plan.

The one that got left behind in the motel room until his parents got back to the room to grab him and run away as fast as they could. Once, they ran so fast, they forgot Harry’s toy car right there on that dirty rug, but it didn’t matter, because it was the toy or their freedom, their lives. And Harry had to learn quickly that not even money is more important than their lives. Not his, but _theirs_. Because they were a family and families stick together until the end, until two thirds of it get shot dead in a bank, because they weren’t careful enough and their plan didn’t really work.

The getaway driver, because even if Harry wasn’t a crucial part of the plan yet, he felt like the glue that kept them all together. He was the part of the plan that his parents needed to not feel bad about themselves, like they managed to create something good as well – besides the mayhem, the chaos and the nightmares Harry didn’t want to be the protagonist of. But they didn’t realize they were creating a monster just like them, a _bad guy_ that would rather spend his days lying on the hot parking lot with his pinkie intertwined than in a stuffy bank.

Harry became a plan when he did his first successful job. Then, when he refused to go along with it, when he started swimming against the current with all his might, because he might’ve separated himself from it, but they were all still together. All until that day three years ago, when Harry finally realized what it actually means to be your own plan. When you’re left lying in your bed with no one there to chase your nightmares away with gentle fingers in your hair.  When Harry was left alone, he became a plan. And since then, he’s changed and he’s morphed into other versions of it, some better, some worse. Some drunk while others painfully sober until he sold the plan and started writing his own, his very own plan – for real this time.

Because Harry knows he’s nothing without a plan, he doesn’t want to fight back. He’s going to embrace it until he’s the best damn plan there ever was and he’s actually happy. Harry’s going to be happy, so that when those last twenty-four hours finally come, he can say he really did it. Harry wants to smile and lay back, because he did everything he’s ever wanted to do.

So he tells Teddy everything. Beginning even before he was born and all until his parents died and he lost everything he knew. Almost everything he knew, because he still had Ted and even if Harry didn’t realize it then, he had Zayn too. He tells Ted all about Zayn and everything they’ve been up to this past month – leaving some details out, because he doesn’t want to give poor Teddy a heart attack.

Harry spills his soul to the person he kept it from for too long. He even starts telling Ted a part of Zayn’s story, of who Zayn is and everything he’s gone through, but Harry stops himself midway through, because it doesn’t quite feel right. If and when Zayn wants to talk to Teddy, he can do it himself. And Harry is sure to tell him that Teddy is a good listener. The best, actually, because as Harry keeps talking, he can see how Teddy follows his words with his eyes, picturing it all, every single word like they’re all sacred, like he was right there next to Harry living it all with him.

Harry can feel himself lose momentum when he gets to what happened this morning. He doesn’t explain in details anymore and he chooses his words after twenty minutes of absolute verbal freedom. But this is fresh, it’s new and Harry still isn’t sure if what he’s doing is the right thing. That’s why he shows Teddy the note. And when Harry asks Ted for the last favor of the day, they both end up smiling and nodding at each other.

“Of course kid.” Teddy takes off his hat. “Of course I’ll go with you.”

*

Harry’s had to say goodbye over and over again, waving through the window until his arm hurt from the awkward angle and there was no one waving back anymore. Harry waved for so long every time that he didn’t even know who he was waving at in the end – if it was a person, a place to call home for that week or two or just a feeling of belonging. He’s been waving all his life, but Harry only knows of a handful of people that he’s said hello to more than once.

It was how their family was, how they lived and moved like nomads, like those butterflies that make the longest migration because they follow the sun and the heat – the next best thing. But his family has drastically shrunk, so now he can’t really hang out the window to wave, because he has to keep his hands on the wheel, ten and two, and focus on the driving instead of leaving yet another place, more people and that feeling of home behind. So Harry doesn’t want to say goodbye anymore. He’s sick of it, he’s tired of driving and if he never sees another stretch of perfectly straight road leading further into the desert, it’ll be too soon.

Harry drives him and Teddy to the Santa Monica Woodlawn cemetery, where they park and stroll towards the left side of the lots, because Harry’s finally ready to say hello. The driving and the moving and staying in random motels all along the road was as fun as it was almost unimaginable to Harry. Des and Anne moved them around more times than Harry could count back then – more times than he wanted to count. They were scared and so they kept moving, kept running away from any possible threats coming their way, which Harry appreciates, he does, but he resents it too. A bitter, copper taste fouls his mouth every time he thinks of packing yet another duffle bag, of climbing into the backseats of a pickup or of following the clouds with his fingers in the air. Harry can’t imagine what it was like, because he doesn’t remember how it felt to not have a home, he just knows that he didn’t, that he never really fully unpacked, because he knew, even when he was six or seven years old that they wouldn’t be staying long. And he resents Des and Anne for it, for not settling down somewhere sooner, before it was too late and he was eighteen and so used to moving, he felt like he was trapped in that house on the beach. He resents every second of it. But Harry’s done moving, he doesn’t want to run anymore, not from this or from anything else for that matter.

So Harry’s here to say hello with Teddy, because he needs someone there to make sure he doesn’t just turn around or fall to his knees and scream – like he’s wanted to do every second of these past three years.

“I think we’re here, kid,” Ted says, winded with the short walk. He has on hand on his hips and the other pointing to a square solid piece of stone with two familiar names engraved in gold on the front.

Harry nods. Now that he’s here, he can’t say anything or he doesn’t really know what he should say, if there’s something he has to declare. Like maybe, “I miss you,” which is obvious, or rather, “I hate you, but less than I did before,” which he doesn’t think anyone needs to hear. Harry contemplates saying a simple “Hello,” since it is why he’s here in the first place, but now that he’s looking at the marble stone with his parents name on it, it doesn’t seem as fitting anymore.

“So this is it,” Harry settles on. It sounds stupid, but then Harry thinks anything would. Any heartfelt words or any message that he’d have, any unsaid words that have been lying heavy on his heart aren’t gonna make him feel any better. Nothing will at this point.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry can see Teddy bow his head and close his eyes. He must be praying, either for Harry’s parents, Harry or maybe even himself, that he hopefully has a couple more good years before he has to come here again. Harry sure hopes that’s true.

But Harry doesn’t really want to duck his head and pay some special respect, because it’s not morning and he’s not standing in the shower. It’s not his time to pray or hope or wish for anything now. What’s done is done and all Harry can do is turn the page and carry on.

It’s only because Harry can’t escape his skin that he clears his throat and takes a step forward.

“Hi,” Harry starts. His voice is weaker than he thought it was going to be, almost fragile, young. “I, um– I miss you. I miss you and I love you and I think I’m ready to stop hating you now. I did for a long time, hate you, because I thought you ruined my life and then you got shot and I hated you even more. All over again.” Harry is getting winded himself as the words pour out of him, like a thunderstorm, a monsoon, a summer shower. “Or maybe I hated you because you just left. You left me all alone and that was never a part of our plan, was it? You didn’t teach me what me to do after you’re gone and I don’t know if you forgot or just… didn’t want to talk about it. But I hate you for it. We were supposed to live in that stupid house on that stupid beach with the stupid ocean keeping me awake at night. Keeping _us_ awake at night. I don’t know why, but I hated you, I really hated you. I still do, but I think I’m ready to stop now.”

Harry takes a second to breathe and run his fingers over his eyes. “I’m gonna stop, because I want to be happy from now on. I want to be happy with Zayn and I want to stop running away from you. You’re gone, but I’m still here. And I miss you. I love you,” Harry finishes, clear and strong, taking another slow and steady breath to stop his tears.

Harry’s done saying goodbye, so when he has nothing more to say, when he’s said everything he needed to, he nods once, just because he feels it’s the right thing to do after his speech, Harry turns on his heel and walks away.

“Are you okay, kid?” he hears after a minute. “That was one strong exit.”

“It wasn’t an exit.”

“Oh?”

“I’m gonna come visit them, bring flowers, the whole shebang,” Harry says over his shoulder to where Teddy is trying to keep up.

“Good for you kid,” Teddy chuckles.

Harry stops so that Ted can catch up with him and when they start walking slower again, at a more senior-friendly pace, Harry wholeheartedly agrees. “I know.”

*

Harry drops Teddy off at the park, because sometime during climbing into the car and getting his seatbelt completely stuck, he grumbled about wanting to finally playing chess, with a couple more curses here or there. And as Teddy is climbing back out of Zayn’s car, Harry can hear more carefully chosen words about how needlessly low the car is.

“So what’re you gonna do now, kid?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says instinctually, but he does. “Actually… I’m gonna go see Zayn.”

Ted twists around on the seat and Harry thinks that can’t be comfortable. “You love him, huh?”

“I do, yeah,” he says on instinct again, but he smiles when he thinks about it. “I really do.”

“Then go get him kid. But come back to play chess sometimes too.”

Harry chuckles. “Of course. I’ll never forget about you, Teddy.”

Ted grumbles again and finally manages to stand up. He slams the door shut, so Harry can’t hear what he’s complaining about now, but he knows he’ll hear it later, maybe in a month when he comes back. Hopefully not sooner.

Just then, Harry catches someone with bleached blonde hair wildly waving at him from across the parking lot. Harry couldn’t really miss Niall, because he’s almost throwing himself over his little hotdog stand – and if he fell it would be a shame, because he does make a mean hotdog on a stick.

So Harry huffs out a laugh, but he gets out of the car. _Done saying goodbye_ he repeats to himself under his breath and before he knows it, he’s walking towards the stand, smiling and a little stuck on Niall’s blue eyes.

“Hey man!” Niall’s first to say, smiling back.

“Hi,” Harry says and waves hello. “How are you?”

“Great, just made plans to hang out on the beach tonight actually. Wanna come?”

Harry’s a little taken back to say the least. Beyond the polite pleasantries, him and Niall haven’t really talked. Ever. Besides Harry’s preference of mayonnaise over mustard, Niall doesn’t really know Harry. But then Harry actually thinks about it and he can’t come up with any reason to try and get out of it this time. Well, not this time, but any other time.

“I’m actually on my way to Vegas, but when I come back?” Maybe Harry sounds a little too hopeful, but all Niall does is smile even brighter – Harry didn’t think it was possible – and starts nodding.

“Sure, yeah, any time. I’m kind of always here, right?”

“Ha, you kind of are.”

“A job is a job,” Niall shrugs and Harry couldn’t agree more.

“I’ll come by.”

“I’ll be here,” Niall smiles and waves again.

So when Harry gets back to the car, he doesn’t have anything else to do than to – temporarily – say goodbye to Santa Monica. It’s not like last time, when he crumpled everything keeping him there and threw it over his shoulder like a discarded piece of paper though. Now it’s more like writing a postcard, like he’s just jotting it down in his notebook, on his to do list. _Come back_ with all capital letters, because Harry’s not running away anymore, not if he can help it.

And as Harry drives back onto the freeway, he looks in his rear view mirror and promises himself to come back in a month.

*

Harry drives to Boulder like he did countless times with his parents. It’s the same roads, same street signs and the same feeling in his gut. Boulder has always been the closest thing Harry’s had to a home, to that warm welcoming feeling like you’re finally back where you belong. And nothing’s changed. It’s still familiar, the turns and the bumps, the sign that says _Welcome to Boulder_ , even if it’s a bit more faded than it was the last time Harry saw it. But the sign is there, on the very same spot that it’s always been and it’s so fucking simple, such an unimportant nothing that it shouldn’t make Harry cry. Yet it does.   

He slows down as he drives down the streets, looking out his window like he’s finally made it to the Promised Land. But it’s just the buildings Harry’s spent his summers around. It’s the same buildings that Zayn had to clean his masterful graffiti off of, the buildings Harry leaned against as he watched Zayn sweat with the brush in his hands.

Harry parks the car in the lot 1-0-3 and feels like crying all over again, but he knows he has to collect himself. That this is the time to be put together and not look as broken as someone might think he is. And those someone’s are probably right at the reception area, so Harry gets out of the car and makes his way to yet another much awaited hello.

He gets to the door and he knocks lightly, a little afraid and a lot nervous. “Anyone home?” Harry says loudly, so that someone will hear. It’s odd though, because he never had to announce himself here before. He was always running right to the back or down to Zayn’s room. Harry always belonged here. Styles were a part of the Maliks during the summer, but maybe that’s going to be true again soon.

“What?” comes a screech from the back and something flutters in Harry’s chest, because Trisha must remember his voice to the very last inflection by the way she comes running to him and embraces him without another word. As if no time has passed and he hasn’t been an awful person for cutting them out of his life, Harry feels like he’s seven years old again. Like he never stopped belonging. “You’re so tall! And so handsome!” Trisha gushes over Harry’s shoulder, squeezing his middle tighter.

Harry sniffles against Trisha’s shoulder before he makes himself lean back to look at her. “And you’re just as beautiful.”

“Now now,” she bats him away. “I see you’re still the charmer.”

Harry shrugs and gives her a dimpled smile just because he knows she never could resist it. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re flattering me, you mean.” She raises her eyebrow in that Malik way that could make anyone crowd into a corner with their tail between their legs, but Harry just chuckles and hugs her again. She’s warm and soft and exactly like Harry remembers his other family to be.

“How are you?” Harry asks, but he doesn’t make a move to let her go. Not yet.

Trisha chuckles and takes a step back, but she keeps her hands on Harry’s, like she doesn’t want to let him go either. “I’m happy you’re here,” she says and her eyes crinkle. Her autumn colored eyes that shine of home. She’s the same Trisha, the one and only Zayn’s mom that Harry sees as his own family too. And up until this moment, she looked so happy to see him, Harry forgot why he was here. Until she says, timidly and quietly, “He said you’ll come back.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes and shakes his head. He wants to laugh now, because he knows he was just being stubborn about holding a grunge no one cared about. He wanted to let go and move on so badly that he ended up digging his heels in the sand and standing there, maybe looking for a sign, maybe waiting for the initial pain to pass. But standing there, Harry’s been blinded by the sun for those three years, so he missed all the signs, all the people that he still had in his life. Running away from it all, Harry almost ran away from himself. “I– I guess I just needed some time.”

“Sweetie,” Trisha says and cups Harry’s cheek – she almost has to wipe a tear away. “Take all the time you need, just don’t forget that we’re here.”

Harry wants to apologize, because none of this was easy for them, but something tells him that an apology doesn’t do them any good. Saying sorry doesn’t change anything. So instead, Harry says, “Thank you,” because that’s as close as he’ll come to expressing his gratitude for this family – for his other family. “For everything, thank you.”

It takes a couple of seconds, but a smile gradually stretches over Trisha’s face, like a sunrise waking up the world each ray at a time, bright and so warm, Harry wants to bask in it. “Now. I’m gonna make dinner,” she announces clear as anything, like nothing happened, not now or during the past three years. Harry’s thankful all over again. “And Zayn’s in the shop. You should go say hi.”

Harry chuckles, because Trisha winks at him and it’s good to know he has someone rooting in his corner. Really, Harry always had someone rooting in his corner, whether it was Teddy, the Maliks or the people he’s met along the way. There was always someone, Harry just needed some time to see it, to hear their hollers and their cheers.

So with only one left thing to do, Harry waves at Trisha and runs – it’s more of a sprint than anything else – across the street to the _Malik’s Garage._ The big red sign is still hanging in front of the customer’s door, the letters curved and styled in a way Harry thinks only Zayn could do. The sign’s the same, but as Harry gets closer, he can see that it’s been repainted with new red and brighter yellows, because it practically shines in the afternoon sun.

When Harry comes to a halt in front of the garage doors, he can see two large figures bent over the hood of a silver car, with their heads knocking together like they can’t quite figure out what they’re doing. As much as Trisha hasn’t changed, Yaser is still as tall as ever with the kindest eyes and the softest smile that borders on shy. Harry waves again when Yaser stands up straight and turns around, and Harry almost cries again with the way Yaser struts right up to Harry and wraps him up in his arms.

Trisha is soft and warm and everything Harry had in Anne, but Yaser is the protector, sturdier than any rock and as hard headed as one too. His wide shoulders and strong arms hold onto Harry for a second or two before he claps him on his forearms.

“Harry,” Yaser says, and Harry takes it to mean ‘hello’ and ‘it’s good to see you’ and maybe even ‘I missed you’, but that could be Harry projecting his own thoughts. It doesn’t matter either way, because Harry smiles and nods once, gives a ‘hello’ of his own.

“Hey.” Harry hears from behind Yaser’s back and the sound of it makes every knot untangle in his stomach, every rope tied around his neck go lose and float away like they were never there to begin with. “You came.”

Yaser ruffles Harry’s hair before he turns to go back to the car. Harry wants to whine, but he gathers up some of the dignity he has left and tries to rearrange his curls instead. “I did yeah.”

“Good,” Zayn nods as he starts wiping his hands on a rug. “That’s good.”

“You didn’t really leave me much choice did you?” Harry goes for something funny, but really it just tugs at his gut, because Zayn might not find it as something easy, just to keep the silence at bay.

Zayn laughs though, so Harry’s still safe. He still has a chance. “I didn’t actually tell you to do anything, did I?”

“ _Come home_? Sounds like telling to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn waves him off, but he’s still smiling, so Harry’s not worried, not exactly. Or at least not yet. “Dad, can I take a break?” Zayn asks over his shoulder and Yaser waves him away too, so Harry ends up following Zayn back across the street to the Inn. It’s more nerve-racking than Harry thought it was going to be.

“You’re still in the same room?” Harry asks as they make their way round the back, where a couple of benches are pushed against the wall. It’s where they would all sit, both families, to watch as the sun dipped behind the horizon, coloring the sky in wild cherry reds and bruised purples.

“1-0-3,” Zayn says. “But I did some remodeling.”

“You did?”

“I got a new bed. And a new lamp,” Zayn says as he sits down on the bench, a mischievous smile on his face.

Harry gasps, because, “You got rid of my nightlight?”

“No, never. I just got _another_ lamp that I can actually use to read.”

“Oh.” Something settles in Harry, deep and tight, right behind his ribs, because that would just be downright mean, throwing something of Harry’s out like that. But Zayn would never do that, of course he wouldn’t.

Zayn sits on the bench still in his dirty whitewashed jeans and a tank with rips and holes and grease stains, playing with the rug in his hands while Harry stands there awkwardly, not knowing exactly if he wants to sit or kneel or crawl into a hole somewhere and swear to never come out again.

He knew this part isn’t going to be easy, that it will take some courage from his part and definitely a lot of cooperation from Zayn, but now that he’s here and Zayn keeps looking up at him through his lashes like he’s waiting patiently for Harry to finish his internal freak-out, it’s even harder than Harry thought.

This is the part Harry can’t screw up. He can’t run away for another three years if he fucks it up, because really, he has nowhere to run and his legs are getting a little tired anyway. This is the big make or break it moment that Harry has no control over. The reason why he’s here, why he took the note Zayn left so seriously.

“So,” Zayn says after Harry still hasn’t managed to open his mouth and it’s just so typical that Harry almost laughs. When it comes down to it, when he’s determined and completely set on doing something, Zayn comes out of his shell and gets so brave that all Harry can do is stand back and watch in awe. So of course Zayn would break the silence and make Harry be brave too.

“So… I went to the cemetery today,” Harry starts as he goes to sit down next to Zayn. The sun is still bright and mighty in the sky. It’s still holding its own. “I haven’t been there yet and I thought I’d go say hi.”

It sounds stupid now that Harry’s said it out loud, because it was so poetic when he thought of it. _Finally being able to say hello._ Harry thinks it just makes him sound like a coward.

But then Zayn nods and looks over at Harry, and squinting against the sun he says, “I’m glad you went to see your parents,” like he’s actually proud of Harry, like he’s happy for him.

Harry laughs though, because in all honesty, “They probably didn’t like hearing everything I had to say to them.”

“Well, either then or now, they needed to hear it and you needed to tell them, right?”

“Right, yeah.”

“Are you gonna go there again?”

Harry tucks his hair away from his face and runs his fingers to the ends. “I think so yeah. Maybe once a month, since I’m gonna go anyway to check on Teddy.”

“Ah, Teddy,” Zayn smiles and leans back. “How is he?”

“Old and grumpy,” Harry laughs and leans back too. “But he has no one left. Well, he has me and I promised him a game of chess in a month.”

“I’d like to meet him maybe,” Zayn says carefully, like he’s testing the waters to see how deep it is. And when he adds an even quieter, “Someday,” Harry’s heart practically sings.

“We could go together?” Harry looks over at Zayn. The sun’s rays are dancing across his face, painting his eyes with gold and his face with near sculpted shadows that Harry wants to kiss away. The feeling of always wanting to have Zayn close to him, within hand reach and no more than a breath away is as overwhelming as it’s always been. Even when they were sixteen and Harry was sweating right though his shirt with nerves, because all he wanted to do was kiss Zayn and he was sure he was going to screw it up somehow, the need to sit in his pickup shoulder to shoulder with Zayn was there. It’s always been there. “Make a trip out of it?”

Zayn laughs with his tongue against his teeth and they need to stop talking soon, because Harry is about ready to fling himself right at Zayn’s lap any moment now.

“As much as I’d love that, I don’t think I want to spend another second in a car than is absolutely necessary.”

Harry bursts out laughing, because it’s painfully true. He loves driving around, but a break from the gas pedal will do him good. “You’re right,” he says through a smile.

And then he feels fingers intertwining with his in a tight hold and it feels like they’re meant to be there, like Harry is being colored in each finger a time. It’s like the last two dots are being connected and he’s finally a complete holistic shape now.

Harry looks down at Zayn’s greasy fingers and without another thought, he says, “I’m happy,” because it’s finally true and it doesn’t sound as hopeful as it did a month ago when he said it to Zayn. It’s not just a wish of what Harry wants to be anymore, of what he’s so desperate for, because it’s finally true. Harry really is happy.

“So you did it, huh?” Zayn smirks at him.

Harry nods and leans in, because he can and he wants to and he doesn’t feel like waiting anymore. He steals a quick kiss and leans his head on Zayn’s shoulder, letting the sun warm him up from head to toe as he settles into everything he has now. A family, friends and Zayn – everything right where it should be. “I did.”

Zayn hums and kisses the top of Harry’s head, tightens his hold on Harry’s hand with a gentle squeeze. And as easy as anything, like he’s been waiting for Harry to come home to tell him, he says, “I did it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done, done and done.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think :)
> 
> [tumblr](http://itsallaboutzarry.tumblr.com/)


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